Dark Horse
by Captain Marauder
Summary: Stiles struggles with his recovery after the Nogitsune ordeal as strange deaths occur in Beacon Hills. But is there really a new creature in town or is his paranoia taking over? Pre-Sterek. Set immediately Post 3B. 17 Chapters total.
1. Chapter 1

_Dark Horse_

 _Chapter 1_

 _A/N:_

 _This is my first fic, please be gentle!_

 _I am Australian so have tried to ensure the American-isms are correct but there may be some that I've missed!_

* * *

This fic is set immediately post season 3B. Some contextual details have changed -Allison lives, Gerard was never cured and is still an inky, leaking mess and Stalia didn't become a thing. Also handwaving away Kate Argent at the end of 3B.

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

Stiles absentmindedly twists the cold faucet off as he meets his own eyes in the foggy bathroom mirror. The darkly bruised under eye shadows haven't entirely faded away but at least he doesn't look like a Tim Burton character anymore with a pasty, pale as death complexion. He's finally looking a little less like Edward Cullen and little more like he has an iron deficiency. It's an improvement he supposes. But not by much.

He stares intently into his own reflected, determined eyes. Seeking anything that he's missed – a shadow, a flicker of something _other—_

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

 _Drip…_

Eyes cutting to the leaky faucet, Stiles grips the handle with both hands and twists as hard as he can, frowning when it won't budge.

 _Drip…_

Stupid, useless tap.

A dull thud sounds as his dad thumps a hand on the door, causing his hand to slip in the condensation on the sink's edge and bowling over the haphazard collection of bottles stacked there.

"Stiles? Everything alright in there?"

Stiles opens the door hurriedly, (thanking the deities he'd put clothes on already) releasing a cloud of foggy steam into the sheriff's face. Whoops, he probably should have cracked the window.

"Yeah, yep, a-okay Daddy-o why—" Stiles blurts, leaning against the door frame.

Noah holds up a hand to forestall the flow of babbling erupting from his son.

"You've been in there for almost an hour. I'm sure you can conclude why I would need to check that you haven't drowned in there," he focuses intently on Stiles' face.

"Well, when a man and his hand love each other very very much—"

The Sheriff scoffs and rolls his eyes skyward "Nice try. Can we cut the deflecting, please?"

Stiles shifts his gaze uneasily to the floor, his casual lean on the door frame becoming a dejected slump. Damnit, can't he leave it alone?

"Do we have to talk about this?" Stiles asked, blunt fingers playing with the lock in the door frame, "I'm a big fan of just ignoring that this whole thing ever happened. Let's just fast forward through the whole touchy-feely Dr. Phil thing, alright?"

He pushes off the frame, avoiding his father's eyes as he feigns casual steps to his bedroom. The muffled thumps of his father's work boots follow.

"You've been shut up in your room for a while there, kiddo. Look, son, I get it. I truly do—"

Visceral frustration rises in his gut, eyes flashing angrily he whirls around, "How can you possibly get it? You couldn't possibly understand, none of them do—"

"Because you won't give us the chance to help you."

Stiles crosses his arms protectively, fingers rising to brush the still foreign Lichtenberg mark on his shoulder. He doesn't want to face this yet, face _her_ … it's all his fault, he let it in…

He startles to awareness as his father claps a calloused, warm hand on his other shoulder.

"I'm sorry… I know I've been a bit overprotective these past two weeks—"

"Is that what we're calling it? I thought you were my shadow for a while there," he mutters.

"I know," Noah sighs as he takes a seat at the foot of Stiles' bed, patting the empty space next to him, gesturing for his son to join him. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, staring off into space just above the cluttered desk.

"You can't blame me for being worried. I know you acted like it was fine once that thing was outta you… but take it from someone who knows. I've seen bad things in my job, son. Hell, I've had to hurt people… and criminal or not these things stick with you, even when you put on a brave face and try to push it down. You think I can't still see my first homicide crime scene? The first kid we pulled out of a violent home? I remember so many of those faces, but that's not always a bad thing…" He hesitates, "You probably think I've been waiting for you to…," Noah shrugs helplessly, "relapse or something. That I've been babysitting you because you can't be trusted but that's not it at all. I'll be honest with you… you're going to struggle for a while with this whether you admit it or not and I want to be there to help you. It's not your fault, but you'll be the one suffering from the memories of what that thing did while it was wearing you. But it was _not_ you. Do you understand me?"

Stiles wrings his hands together, breath catching oddly in his chest. Blinking rapidly to clear the moisture gathering in his eyes, "I know it wasn't me in control. I fought so damn hard against him…" he swallows harshly, "but it was wearing my face, sharing my body… I know it wasn't me." He gestures in the vague direction of his ear, "Hell, I've got this freaky non-consensual tattoo courtesy of the weirdo ninjas to prove that I'm 100% me again. But I'm not sure if the rest of them believe it… after Allison—"

"Stiles, stop. Allison chose to go to Eichen House to fight those Uno's—"

"Oni," he snorts.

"Yeah, those things," the Sheriff mutters to himself, "God, why are there so many of these supernatural bastards to remember…"

Stiles represses a snort, breath juddering out of his nose, "I made you a chessboard!" he protests defensively "It's not my fault Cora did the fainting damsel routine before we could finish explaining."

The Sheriff raises his eyebrows disbelievingly, "Yeah- your chessboard was not as helpful as you seem to think it is-"

Stiles squawks with outrage with a mutinous mutter of _"There were post-it notes!"_ as his dad speaks over the top of him. "Regardless, she chose to be there. She worked out the solution and she went there with full knowledge of what could happen. What could have happened to any of you." Stiles closes his mouth and looks away, breathing harshly through his nostrils. "She's very lucky, Stiles, despite what you may think. A wound like that in the gut? I can't even tell you how close that could have been to fatal. She might be struggling now with the side effects, but she will recover, Stiles."

"I thought she died, Dad," Stiles whispers in a strained voice, "It still feels like my fault. I don't know how Scott could possibly forgive that."

"Allison doesn't blame you, kid. Everyone knows you and that nogitsune thing were split before all that happened-"

"Then why hasn't anyone come to see me? It's been two weeks, Dad. They still see the nogitsune when they look at me. Who could blame them when I—"

"No one blames you, son. You just can't see that because you've locked yourself away in here feeling sorry for yourself. You're pushing them away. Your phone's been out of charge for who knows how long trying to ignore them and you're refusing to open the door for them. This is a two-way street, Stiles."

Stiles huffs an irritated breath as he cards his hands through his hair in frustration, "No, dad—"

"No, you listen to me," his dad chides, "Life moves on for other people. Just because time has stopped having meaning for you doesn't mean they don't have obligations. I admit I had some part in it–" Stiles glances at his dad warily, "I wanted you to have some time and space to recover, but they're trying not to crowd you. They know you'll see them when you're ready. Though I'll be honest with you, Lydia is getting impatient. You need to charge your phone and reply to your messages before she marches over here and does it herself. Hell, I'll give her the key myself."

A frisson of guilt-inducing fear travels up Stiles' spine at the thought of an irate Lydia Martin. A surge of regret fills his anxious, writhing stomach. Maybe he shouldn't have shut her out for the past two weeks…. especially after all they did to save him.

Noah's soft, sympathetic voice breaks the stress filled silence, "You can always talk to Derek. I know he left his new number with you when he went off with Peter. If anyone understands what it's like to have to adjust after their world has been turned upside down, it's him."

Astonished, Stiles jerks and swivels to face his father, "Wait, you _want_ me to talk to Derek? You mean Derek Hale, right? Broody eyebrows, perpetual grumpy Hale? The one who's off on some quest slash repo mission with Zombie Wolf?"

The sheriff rolls his eyes in exasperation, "Do we know any other Dereks? Look, while you were… not you… Derek and I had some time to go over his role in all this,' he gestures broadly at the scattered printouts on Japanese mythology littering the desk, the labeled chess pieces and Deaton's thick leather tomes on all sorts of arcane matters. "Fact is, he's grown up a hell of a lot since you first got involved in all this. He helped a lot in trying to save your ungrateful ass. Maybe if you stopped pulling his pigtails you'd be able to see that."

Embarrassment licks its flames up Stiles' neck and cheeks, he tries to deny, "That's not what I-"

The Sheriff holds up a hand to stop him in his tracks as he rises from the soft bed. "Kid, I don't even want to know. But if you're still being stubborn about talking to your…" he hesitates, the word feeling odd and foreign in his mouth, " _pack…_ then promise me you will talk to someone, Derek or not."

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, admonished, "Ok. I'll try. I just don't know—"

"You know who would be perfect to talk to?" Noah interrupts. "Jackson. What did he turn into again? A Cavoodle?"

Stiles lets out a sudden, undignified snort, "A kanima, dad. I'm not talking to Jackass about this!" he protests, "though I suppose possession isn't that far off being a kanima," he mutters to himself.

The Sheriff's radio crackles loudly as the dispatch officer's voice breaks through from its clip on his shoulder.

"Sheriff, Code 20, what is your status?"

Sighing briefly, he reaches for his radio, "10-10A, Margie, due to start in 30, 10-98."

"Parrish is requesting assistance at Beacon Hill's Memorial Cemetery, crowd control and public safety hazard."

The Sheriff meets Stiles' eyes, a puzzled expression flickering across his tired features. Crowd control… at the cemetery? "Can Clark assist?"

"Unit 19 Clark and Stadtler are at a 909, multiple 10-91d on Hillcrest Road and 11-79." Noah blinks in surprise. A roadkill incident that requires an ambulance? With _multiple_ animal fatalities? He's going to have to get on to the park rangers office and—

"Unit 21 is responding to a report of a 10-91V with animal control near Beacon South Elementary."

"10-91V? That's a vicious animal, Dad. Is it-"

Noah interrupts, "Stiles, I hate to break it to you kid, but sometimes an animal attack isn't caused by the supernatural. Hell, maybe it is a mountain lion for once," he shrugs as he thumbs at the receiver to respond.

"Margie, do you have a status update on the 10-91V?", he side-eyes Stiles, who is damn near quivering in anticipation.

The voice on the radio crackles out, "It's a bear," the Sheriff's eyes widen in shock, "been tranq'd by animal control. En route to control holding cages near ranger's office."

Stiles mouths _a bear?!_ in disbelief.

"10-9 Confirm, near Beacon South Elementary?"

"Confirm. No media presence, it was in the woods at the fence line after going through a few yards."

The Sheriff lets out a relieved sigh, that's the last thing he needs, a media circus about his department endangering children…

"That remains to be seen, Margie. Status on Parrish?"

"There's been a flood from a creek in the preserve. Caused significant property damage in a section at the rear of the cemetery. There's been some heavy erosion and exposure of caskets from the earth. Health Department at the scene. Crowd control and media management requested by Parrish."

A grief-stricken look flashes across the Sheriff's face. Bile rose in Stiles' throat as nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Caskets just lying there in the mud… he was suddenly grateful his mother had wanted to have her ashes spread instead.

"10-4. On my way," said the Sheriff, a sombre mood engulfing the room.

The moment stretched as the Sheriff got lost in his thoughts. Stiles cleared his throat, "Well, Pops, better let you get to it. Sounds like you'll be pulling a double to manage," he gestures out the window, "all of _that._ "

"Why don't you charge that phone of yours and hang out with Scott? I'm going to be gone a while, it seems. I'd rather you had someone with you."

"Dad," Stiles protests, "I don't need someone to watch me all the time. I'm not going to… I dunno… have a mental breakdown or anything."

"I never said that. But it would make me feel better to know you're not shut up in this house alone. You promised you'd start reaching out to your friends again—"

"Technically," Stiles interrupts, "I never promised any of that—"

"Kid," his dad sighs as he steps over the cluttered mess of the bedroom floor and plugs in the abandoned phone of the bedside table, "Text Scott. Eat pizza. Play one of those strange video games you begged me to buy you for your birthday. Just don't sit here alone. Promise me."

The phone chimes and buzzes loudly against the wood with an influx of messages. Stiles casts it a wary glance as the phone makes its presence known for an almost absurdly long time.

The Sheriff claps him on the shoulder as he leaves, throwing a, "Guess you've got some catching up to do!" over his shoulder as he descends the stairs.

"I guess so…"

He takes a few calming breaths and gathers himself. It's now or never, man. Stiles wipes his clammy hands on the denim of his jeans as he approaches the lit-up screen. A cascade of notifications greet him upon unlocking the phone. He sits, shakily, careful not to unplug the charger.

 **14 Missed Calls** glares at him accusingly. He ignores the angry red number as best as he can and opens his messaging app reluctantly. He's met with a wall of notifications. Stiles scrolls through the unread text previews, heart rising in his throat the more he reads.

 **Scotty  
** · _Hey, tried calling you again but you're…  
_ · _Dude, can you please pick up we're havi…  
_ · _Allison's doing so much better after the…  
_ · _Call me back when you're up for it, we'r…  
_ · _C'mon, it's been a week, will you please…  
_ · _\+ 9 unread messages_

Stiles winces at the beseeching tone of Scott's messages. He cringes internally; some best friend he is. Stiles kind of thought Scott might just get distracted with Allison all over again after that awkward near-deathbed love confession. Seems he underestimated his friend. He eyes the next set of messages warily.

 **Lydia  
** · _How are you feeling? Call me if you wan…  
_ · _Thought you might want an update on All…  
_ · _Pick up your phone right now. I mean it yo…  
_ · _Stiles Stilinski, so help me god I will come o…  
_ · _I did not go to all this effort for you to hid…_

He recoils at the increasingly threatening tone in Lydia's texts. Shit. Maybe he should have replied to at least one of them. It had only been two weeks though! He thought they'd give him space and then get over pushing the issue. Though he guesses he hoped they'd forget about it… about him. That way he wouldn't have to face them knowing what he did- Stiles shakes his head to dismiss the intrusive, negative thoughts; _'Can't think like that, come on, you haven't even seen them yet. It wasn't you. They don't blame you.'_ He scrolls down letting out a snort of surprise when he sees the next name on the list.

 **Derek  
** · _Isaac said you looked awful. Get better soon.  
_ · _Peter and I are going on a trip to Nevada w…  
_ · _The loft will be empty. No more parties I mea…  
_ · _Your dad is worried. Talk to him.  
_ · _If you needed someone to talk to who isn't Sco…  
_ · _Peter says he'll give you advice. Don't listen to…_

Stiles shakes his head ruefully, same old Derek. Terse, barking orders at everyone. Not that he'd appreciate the dog comparison. It is unusual though, he ponders, that Derek is clearly showing he cares instead of being his usual emotionally constipated self. He's also clearly been around his father in the past two weeks if he knows that he's been worried. Eyebrows furrowing, he realizes he hasn't seen too much of Derek during this whole catastrophe. He'd heard from the others immediately after the split about what Derek had done to help, including trying to keep the options non-lethal. Bit of a change of heart after the Jackson fiasco. He should be thankful for that at least.

There are two messages from an unknown number still blinking at him. Puzzled, he opens the message thread.

 **408-690-0476 | 10:23 |** _So you did things while not in your right mind. Been there, done that.  
_ _They won't understand. Well, Lydia maybe. My bad ;)  
_ _Text me if you want to speak to someone with a modicum of intelligence.  
_ _About anything other than your feelings, that is._

 **408-690-0476 | 10:27 |** _Do not put me in your phone as Zombie Wolf. I will know._

Stiles chuckles to himself as he saves the number under the name 'Creepy Uncle'. He'd noticed that Peter kept his head down and remained uninvolved in the nogitsune conflicts. Unsurprising that he tried to preserve his own skin, but surprising that he's bothered to reach out to Stiles at all. Although he had always seemed a little _too_ invested in Lydia. Perhaps he was intrigued by the intellect and cunning he showed planning the bank vault break in and the level of illegal access he has to key locations in town. God, he hopes his dad never realizes he has those station keys and logins. Not that Stiles will ever admit it, but there are some unnerving similarities between Peter, Stiles and their flexible moral code.

He flicks through his missed call log. Mostly Scott, one from Derek, a few from Lydia and two from Allison. The last one surprises him a little. They'd been amicable, but hardly… it's not like they spent time together when Scott wasn't around. How she could possibly want to speak to him after what she's been through because of him? He shelves that thought for now. One step at a time, dude.

He taps on the screen with nail-bitten thumbs.

 **Stiles | 9:52 am |** _Yo Scotty. Sorry I've been MIA. Xbox sesh?_

He promptly throws the phone screen down onto the bedspread and flops backwards, forearm covering his eyes. That sounded good, right? An apology and a casual invitation. Minimal risk. If Scott is mad and refuses that's fine. He can play solo, it'll be totally fine. Yep, no issue with that no-siree. You deserve to be alone after the trouble you caused whispers a malicious voice in the back of his head. Nope. No. Shut up. Not today, Satan. You can get fu—

A muted buzz erupts from the bedding next to him, interrupting his thoughts.

"Arguing with your own conscience. A sure sign of sanity there, Stilinski," he mutters. He reaches for the phone, swallowing heavily as he flips it over.

 **Scott | 9:54 am |** _Can't right now._

Any sense of hope Stiles had remaining crashed and burned. A crippling sense of— _bzzz-_

 **Scott | 9:54 am |** _Deaton called me in to work- emergency  
_ **Scott | 9:55 am |** _Mom has car – overtime at work and bike busted. Can I catch a lift w you?  
_ **Scott | 9:55 am |** _I'm not even gonna give you the chance to say no._

 _Heading over. Be there in 5._

Relief floods through his system. Quickly followed by anxiety. Was Scott mad at him? He scans the messages for some sort of subtext. Shit. What if he is mad? He wouldn't blame Scott after pushing the pack away and giving them the silent treatment for weeks after they got the nogitsune out.

All too soon he hears a thumping on the front door. Tumbling from his place on the bed, he rushes his way down the stairs, nearly falling into the door frame in his haste. He twists the deadbolt, wrenches open the door and is immediately engulfed in an encompassing hug from Scott. The icy December breeze from the wide open doorway winds its way around his ankles. They sway on the spot a little as Scott refuses to relinquish his tight grip on the back of Stiles' hoodie.

"Dude, I know you want to get all up in this… but you're letting the cold in," Stiles mumbles into Scott's shoulder.

Scott pushes off him with a gentle shove, "What can I say, it's the hair, man. Just does it for me," he shrugs before his face splits into a lopsided grin. "I missed you, bro. I know you needed time and space, but don't ever do that to me again. You're the Timon to my Pumbaa, it's just not the same without you."

"That is the single most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. Are you sure you don't wanna make out a little—" Scott pushes his face away with a laugh.

"Please, we all know I'm not your type," Scott scoffs.

"Hey, don't put yourself down, you could be!"

"Nah, you like them sarcastic, out of your league and vaguely threatening," Scott chuckles as he pushes Stiles' towards the shoe pile near the door.

"Well, Lydia did recently threaten me via text. Which I should probably reply to before she de-balls me…"

"Who said I was talking about Lydia?" Scott replies, looking at him with mirth filled eyes.

"Wha- You- Who else could I possibly be talking about?" Stiles protests, wobbling as he tries to jam a foot into a pair of red converse.

"No one, just a thought. Let's roll, man. Deaton said it was all hands on deck." Scott's expression brightens, "Hey, maybe you can be _my_ assistant!"

Closing and locking the front door behind them Stiles replies, "I bravely volunteer to help socialize the puppies and kittens. It's a challenging job, but I'll take it."

Scott hums as if in thought, "I was thinking more along the lines of me not having to clean the cages out." Stiles opens the driver's side door of the jeep and leans across to unlock the passenger side door.] as Scott meanders his way around. "I've got a better sense of smell than you now, it's almost cruel to make me clean the litter trays… and you are my assistant now after all," Scott smirks. Stiles glares at Scott and he buckles himself in.

"Hard pass on all bodily fluids. Not a chance."

The jeep rumbles to a start, gears grinding as he reverses out of the driveway.

They drive through the mostly empty streets with only the dull roar of the engine and faint voices from the radio to break the silence. Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel in anxious anticipation.

"So… do you wanna talk about it?"

Whoop, there it is. Stiles knew there was only so long Scott could last without addressing the elephant in the room.

He hesitates, thinking carefully before he answers, "I mean… I don't know what to say exactly. It's been… god, so damn awful… I'm just trying to ignore it until these feelings go away if I'm being honest. I mean- thank you, obviously, for saving my ass and getting rid of that dusty bastard. It's just… I'm not sure if I entirely trust myself now? Like, how can I be sure that it's gone?"

Scott considers those words, a solemn look upon his face. Haltingly, he explains, "I think it's probably normal to feel… paranoid, I guess? After being possessed. Well, as normal as possession can be. But Stiles, you have to know that we are absolutely sure it's gone. Isaac caught it in the box and Kira's mom made certain it could never escape again."

"Because that worked so well the first time," Stiles mutters mutinously.

"Yeah, well… when has anything worked out well in this town," Scott shrugs. "I know you'd rather just pretend everything is back to normal. But it's important to talk about it. I'd hate for you to still be struggling with nightmares and… I dunno, PTSD by yourself. We're a team. A pack. We need to rely on each other. Think how much quicker we could have helped Lydia if she was more open about the nightmares and visions she was having when Peter was messing with her head. Looking back, I can see the signs were there but we were too caught up in the kanima stuff."

Silence descends upon them. Eye blinking rapidly to dispel the quickly gathering moisture, Stiles coughs and busies himself with adjusting his rear-view mirror, "…Thanks, Scotty. It's just going to take some time ok." He meets Scott's eyes with a sad smile, "I need to forgive myself before I start getting my feelings over everyone."

"No one blames you dude, least of all Allison. She's doing a lot better now that she's out of the hospital. She thinks you're being ridiculous the way. She's said she's ready to smack some sense into you, but it'll have to wait until she's recovered more," Scott smiles.

"But Scott, she almost died. Lydia screamed her name, I can't—"

"Yeah, _almost_ died. I thought she was dead for a while there too. _She_ thought she was done for. I mean, while you and Lydia were in the tunnels, she told me she loved me. And… I don't know what to do with that now. I mean…I've got Kira and she has Isaac—"

Stiles twists his head to stare at Scott in shock, glancing rapidly between the road ahead and Scott's profile, "Woah, she what? Holy shit… what… what are you going to do with that?"

"Nothing for now. I mean, it was basically a deathbed confession, right? Or close enough to it. I can't hold her to that like she… owes me an explanation."

That… is surprisingly mature of Scott, he has to admit. Far more mature than he would have given him credit for considering the Allison sagas of the past.

"Doesn't it make things awkward between you and Kira? Not to mention Isaac," he hisses between his teeth, "that's harsh," Stiles cringes in sympathy. He's glad to be single. He's even more glad that Malia has to be halfway to Nevada with Derek and Peter right now. He has a feeling if he tried to tell her he was under the influence of a demon when they kissed, and his feelings of revulsion when he realized they'd been coerced, she'd eviscerate him.

As Stiles approaches the intersection to turn onto Hillcrest Road he hums to Scott, "Hmm, Dad got a call over the radio this morning that there was a traffic incident up here. Something about roadkill. Sounds like it'd be up past the welcome sign."

"Roadkill?" questions Scott. "That would be cleared off by now, right? I mean, how long can it possibly take to-" he makes an awkward shoveling gesture.

They turn the sharp bend which takes them along the eastern edge of the preserve, the vet clinic just through the stretch of forest, lined by short rocky cliff where the edge of the business zone begins. It's supposed to be a shortcut with less traffic than driving through the outer Beacon Hills busy business district. Key word supposed to, Stiles thinks uncharitably. Just ahead of them they see a short trail of red taillights crawling through the haphazardly laid out traffic cones. Red and blue patrol car lights flash against the foliage lining the road.

"Well, guess you're going to be late to work," Stiles sighs.

The cars queued in front begin to creep forward ever so slowly.

"Wow, they must have really-" Stiles imitates an explosion with his hands, "some sort of mutant deer to cause this much damage." He mimes chunks flying off but stops at the sickened look on Scott's face.

"You ok, bro?"

Scott exhales shakily, "I can smell it—"

"Oh, dude, gross. Don't tell me—"

"There's so much of it."

"So… much deer?"

Scott shakes his head and Stiles soon sees why. A blood-smeared car rests on the verge, bonnet dented beyond repair. On the road, pools of garnet glisten wetly in the flashing police lights. Another car, this one with bloodied, shattered windows is being strapped to a tow truck. The white of its paint makes the deep red splashes all the more macabre. There, lying across the other lane is a buck, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

"That's a lot of damage from one deer? How fast were they going?" Stiles asks disbelievingly.

"There can't be just one," Scott whispers, head tilted towards the window, frowning in concentration taking deep, careful breaths.

Another one. This time a doe. Legs tangled and broken, ribcage noticeably caved in.

They edge past the destruction, tires leaving blood slicked tracks behind them. They near the end of the roadblock when they see it. Scott hisses between his teeth, "That's a full-grown elk, not a common deer." Stiles takes his word for it that he knows his animals. The frankly enormous bull elk has come to a rest halfway inside the windshield of an SUV, broken shards protruding from its neck. Its sprawling antlers almost a hand reaching for the sky. For help.

It's a morbid sight, Stiles wants to look away but can't seem to drag his eyes from the disaster before him. The elk nearly dwarfs the car, a veritable river of blood drips over the side of the car.

It's several long, quiet minutes before Stiles puts the car into park in the lot of the animal clinic.

Stiles breaks the silence, "What… what could have made them do that? Why would three of them just…"

"Something must have scared them out of the forest. I mean, it's nothing but rock on the other side. It's the only explanation I can think of," Scott sighs, "it's what prey animals do. They run as far away as fast as possible." Scott continues sadly as he throws open the jeep door, "sometimes that ends up being onto a road."

Stiles calls out to Scott's retreating back as he makes his way to the clinic doors, "I'll catch up with you in a second!" Humming in thought Stiles draws his phone out of his back pocket, fingers drumming uncertainly against the case. He eyes the tree line in the distance with vague suspicion, ideas drawing together as his fingers open an unread message thread.

 **Derek | 11:15 pm |** _Peter says he'll give you advice.  
_ _Don't listen to a word he says._

 **Stiles | 10:20 am |** _Something in preserve scaring out wildlife. Bear. Elk.  
_ _Question… What's bigger and scarier than you are in those woods?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Casting a final, wary glance at the tree line, Stiles pockets his phone and follows Scott into the animal clinic. The bell above the door chimes, announcing his entrance to the empty, impersonal waiting room.

"In the back, Stiles!" Scott's voice echoes down the hallway from the examination room, beckoning him.

Stiles' rubber soles squeak slightly on the linoleum as he crosses to the staff entrance. His hand hovers over the latch that keeps the mountain ash gate shut. Deaton must have shut it behind Scott. He hesitates though. This shouldn't be a problem. It's just a gate. Just reach out and unlatch it…

But what if he can't open it? What if the nogitsune took part of his humanity when it split them apart? The horrifying idea that his body isn't the one he was born with flits across his mind. He'd heard about the nogitsune vomiting the mass of bandages that unraveled to become him. What if the nogitsune stole the real body and he's just a clone? A soulless replica, a—

He cuts that train of thought off with an abrupt jerk of his head. No. He can't allow himself to get sucked into that kind of thinking. Gathering his courage, he takes a deep breath, screwing his face up in dread as he reaches out and—

 _-snick-_

The latch opens and the mountain ash gate swings forward silently. Relief washes over him as he steps tentatively across the threshold. He can cross the ash barricade, he's still human. He's still himself. Stiles brushes a finger across the 'self' kanji branded behind his ear, reassured. He hadn't fully trusted the Oni's mark after they showed they could switch allegiance to the nogitsune.

He treads lightly down the corridor, pausing just inside the examination room.

"Stiles. It's good to see you yourself again. I trust you had no issues with the gate?"

Stiles shoots a suspicious glare at the back of Deaton's head. How did he know what Stiles was thinking? Can he read minds? He can read minds, can't he? Stop thinking about it, he'll know you're onto him—

Scott clears his throat and tips his head towards Deaton, who is now staring at him, perplexed. Oops, seems he was glaring for a little too long.

"Deaton. Cryptic as always." Stiles side-eyes Deaton as he turns back to the animal on the lab bench. He's not ruling out the possibility of mind reading yet, that's for sure.

Scott throws a bewildered look at Stiles who shrugs dismissively.

"Scott, you were saying?" Deaton enquires as he wraps a bandage around the foreleg of a sedated bobcat. Stiles prays to whoever or whatever is listening that it stays asleep.

"Yeah, um, there were two smaller ones… a younger stag, a doe, and an enormous bull elk. This thing was huge, I can't imagine how they ended up getting hit. I mean, it's straight road and that rock ledge on one side, they couldn't have been trying to cross, right?"

Deaton hums, "Yes, it is unusual that they would stray so close to the road. For one to be hit, I could understand, but several? I know the park rangers specifically planted dense hedges a short way into the preserve as a deterrent for the larger wildlife. To keep them from coming onto the roads, into yards. But, it's a fact of life when you live next to a nature preserve – nature doesn't like to stay behind a fence. Wild animals are just that though, we can only guess at their motivations. I do have my suspicions though."

"Dad got a call about a bear near Beacon South Elementary earlier too," Stiles pipes up.

A look of surprise crossed Deaton's face, "That is unusual indeed. While bears are native to California, there hasn't been a reported bear sighting in Beacon Hills for a very long time."

"Is any of this related to why you called me in?" Scott asks.

Unraveling a roll of plaster bandage over the bobcat's leg, Deaton responds, "I'm not entirely certain they're connected at all, but yes I do need your assistance. The ranger station has contacted me, it seems that someone has been potentially poisoning one of the waterholes in the preserve. The bodies of a family of beavers and several raccoons were found by the water's edge."

"It wasn't some sort of predator?" queries Scott, passing Deaton the scissors.

He hums in thought, "I don't believe so. A predator would have consumed them or shown signs of an attack. As far as I'm aware, the bodies were untouched. We can't confirm poison or any cause of death without samples, however. I offered to collect them- the ranger station doesn't have the best lab equipment and this way we can utilize the assistance that only you can provide, Scott."

"Gross, dude. You're on corpse sniffing duty," Stiles scrunches his nose up in disgust.

"I was thinking more along the lines of identifying hunter trails or residual chemicals…but yes, that too."

"Wait," Stiles looks up in alarm, "when you say _samples_ do you mean—"

"Water samples from the location the rangers have indicated. If there is another body at the same site I would like to see photos at the very least, perhaps the cadaver if you can manage it and it's intact." Stiles shudders at the thought of slinging some dead raccoon over his shoulder to carry back. Definitely a Scott job. He's just the assistant's assistant after all… "An autopsy may be able to tell us more about whether this is human or natural causes such as disease."

"And what about supernatural causes? I mean, we got plenty of those around here" Stiles asks distrustfully.

"It's far more likely a natural cause, these things happen where towns border national parks. Often it's a chemical spill from pollution or an introduced disease from a pet."

Deaton gently lifts the bobcat from the bench and places it in a sturdy steel cage. Locking the cage he adds, "This bobcat is not the first wild animal I've been asked to treat. The ranger station and the other veterinarian clinics are becoming overwhelmed by having to treat animals from the preserve in addition to their own clientele. There's been an increase in minor injuries which leads me to believe this is the work of amateur hunters laying traps."

The vet crosses to the desk, withdrawing a folded map from the drawer. He unfolds it to lay flat on the steel bench. "The corpses found by the ranger station were found here," he points at a body of water roughly the size of the lacrosse field, "now, the corpses were found close by the banks and have been removed by the rangers, but you can see that there are streams that branch off. My concern is that if this body of water has indeed been tampered with, the effects will spread through the streams into the rest of the water supply. Scott, if you could pass me the messenger bag behind you?"

Scott collects the khaki colored messenger bag and opens the flap. Deaton reaches in and withdraws several specimen jars and swabs in vials. "Now, these specimen jars are for water samples. You must label them clearly. I need water samples from the places I've indicated on the map," he points at several red dots at waterways leading to and from the red X on the map. He shows them a swab in a vial next, "Now these are for swabbing samples of anything you may find suspicious. Especially if anything smells unnatural, Scott. If you find a corpse that is too degraded to bring in see if you can swab inside its mouth. Label them precisely please and mark locations on the map. You'll see the vials and jars are numbered. I shouldn't need to impress upon both of you the need to be thorough if this indeed poison in the waterway."

"Are you sure I can't assist with something of the puppy variety instead?" Stiles asks hopefully.

Deaton smirks, reaches into the bag once more and withdraws a folded, black, woven plastic rectangle. "But this job is especially for you, Stiles," He shakes the rectangle which unfolds to reveal the heavy-duty zippered front of a small body bag. "I know how much you like to be involved," Deaton says with mirth filled eyes.

Stiles gags a little and breaths deeply through his nose to clear the sudden wave of nausea. "Nope. Whoo, that is- just -nope. No! A thousand times nope. Scott! Scott, you're the official vet assistant, I think you should take one for the team."

"You're carrying the bag then," Scott replies, shoving the laden messenger bag into Stiles' arms and making his way to the front door.

"Hey!" Stiles calls out, stumbling along behind him. "No fair! You have wolfy strength! Be an alpha, man!"

The bell above the door clangs loudly as it swings shut behind Stiles. Jars and vials clanking together in the bag as Stiles trots to catch up with Scott, who's waiting patiently by the passenger door.

Scott watches with amusement as Stiles struggles to juggle the bag while retrieving his keys from his jeans pocket. Doors finally unlocked Scott reaches over and takes the bag. "Part of being an alpha is helping others develop their strengths," Scott replies with a calm, zen expression on his face.

Turning the key in the ignition, Stiles mutters under his breath, "Been spending too much time with Deaton, the freakishly calm weirdo…No one is that calm all the damn time. No one!"

Stiles drums his fingers absently on the wheel during the drive to the edge of the preserve closest to the waterway. It feels strange to fall into his and Scott's normal rhythm of bantering so rapidly…and for Deaton to show some humor? He suspects they could be coddling him. He has to admit, it is nice to not have to hash out his traumas with each person he meets. Though he's pretty certain Lydia is going to force him to talk about it judging by the texts she sent. He'll reply later, he decides. When it's too late in the night for her to drop by and wring his feelings out of him over ice cream and 'The Notebook' like he's been dumped or something. God, the last thing he needs is to watch that movie after the cruel trick the nogitsune played with his scans. And as for calling Allison back—

"Park over there," Scott interrupts his thoughts, gesturing to a patch of flat grass near an Elm tree. They gather the bag and map and begin their trek through the preserve, the cold December winds biting at their exposed fingers.

"So, do we need a compass or something or are you all Bear Grylls now?" Stiles puffs out as he climbs over a large fallen tree trunk that Scott jumped with ease.

Scott consults the map, turning it this way and that humming thoughtfully. "No, I'm pretty sure we're going in the right direction…"

"And by pretty sure you mean definitely sure, right?"

Scott turns the map the other way, puzzled.

Stiles' eyes widen, "Right, Scott?"

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," Scott chuckles, folding the map in half. "It's about five minutes walk this way."

"Well, don't forget that you're the K9 part of this unit, sniffer dog. Don't forget to turn your nose on."

"Oh, I don't think you're one to tell me about turn-ons and noses. You realize we can smell that, right?"

Stiles comes to an abrupt halt. Shit. It had completely slipped his mind. He feels his face heat up in embarrassment. Scott adds, laughing, "You really need to crack that bedroom window of yours every now and again, yeah?"

"Not cool, dude. Isn't there something in the bro code about bringing that kind of shit up?"

Scott tosses him a cheeky grin over his shoulder as he follows the narrow deer trail. "Keep up, man."

Stiles feels a faint buzz through the pocket of his jeans. Twisting Deaton's bag out of the way he delves into this pocket to see a notification on his screen.

 **1 new message:** **Derek**

Unlocking the phone, he taps the messages app.

 **Stiles | 10:20 am |** _Something in preserve scaring out wildlife. Bear. Elk._

 _Question… What's bigger and scarier than you are in those woods?_

 **Derek | 11:05 am |** _Hunters._

Stiles has a moment of panic. He quickly taps out:

 **Stiles | 11:05 am |** _Like the Argents?_

 **Derek | 11:06 am |** _No…actual game hunters._

 **Stiles | 11:06 am |** _We're in the preserve right now. Should we be wearing those fluoro high-vis vests?_

 **Derek | 11:07 am |** _If they're scaring all the game_ _into the town they're not particularly good hunters._

 **Derek | 11:07 am |** _So if you run fast enough you should be safe._

 **Stiles | 11:07 am |** _Helpful._

 **Derek | 11:08 am |** _Tip: when you hear gunshots, run._

Stiles lets out an involuntary snort of laughter. Wolf's got jokes, who knew?

Scott looks back at him curiously. "Is that Lydia you're talking to?"

Stiles glances at him briefly before returning his attention to his phone. "God, no. I'm postponing that until she's too tired to murder me for giving her the silent treatment." At Scott's questioning eyebrow he adds, waving the phone, "It's Derek."

A look of sly understanding crosses Scott's face.

"Woah, hey! What's that look for?"

"What look?" Scott blinks with false innocence.

"That one! Right there! That thing you're doing right now with the eyebrows and the smirk. Stop that. What is that for?" Stiles exclaims.

"That's my face, Stiles. It moves sometimes when I have emotions," he deflects, walking faster to get away from Stiles' squinty eyed glare.

Stiles throws a shady look at his friend's rapidly retreating back before turning to his screen to reply:

 **Stiles | 11:10 am |** _You've been shot how many times now? My record is an all time 0 so I think I'm the expert here, buddy._

 **Derek | 11:10 am |** _Semantics._

Smirking to himself he pockets the phone again, jogging to catch up. Just ahead, Scott struggles to untangle his jacket sleeve from a vicious looking set of thorn bushes. Well, he may be a creature of the night now, but he's definitely the same old Scott.

Stiles watches him flounder for a minute, enjoying the spectacle that is his best friend losing a fight with a shrubbery. "What's the matter, Scotty? Can't roar the bush into submission?"

Scott lets loose an exasperated sigh. "Aren't you going to even try and help me?"

Stiles pretends to consider it for a moment. "Mmm, no. I'm good, thanks." He should probably at least try to be a good friend after all Scott and the others did to help him, but where's the fun in that? Scott finally escapes the clutches of the rogue plant and dumps the bag onto the leaf-strewn ground. Unfolding the map, Scott eyes the nearby creek bed with a critical gaze.

"Reckon we start here," he points at the red X indicating the area of interest, "Work our way inwards to the edge of the water? If it's poison the animals might have been able to walk a distance before getting sick. Then we can split up, you do one stream, I'll do the other?"

An idea strikes Stiles suddenly, "What if it's not in the water though? What if it just makes them thirsty and they die before they get here?" If that's the case, there could be baits anywhere he thinks rather hopelessly. Stiles may be good at many things, but manual labor in the outdoors is not his forte.

Scott considers it for a few moments, "I suppose that would show up in the autopsy results. It's above my pay grade for now," he shrugs. "I'll start over here and you do that side over there and meet at the water's edge?" Scott snatches the bag up and starts edging his way under low hanging branches into the shadowy depths. He calls out over his shoulder, "Don't forget to swab anything suspicious!"

Suspicious? How the hell is he supposed to- he doesn't have super senses. Begrudgingly, Stiles plods through the undergrowth, uncaring if he makes noise. As he trudges over branches and mossy rocks, he casts his gaze about for anything 'suspicious'. After several long minutes of monotonous searching, his stomach lets out a discontented rumble at the first, faint pangs of hunger. Shivering slightly in the chilly winter breeze, he tugs his hoodie strings tighter. Then he sees it. The sightless onyx eye of the doe staring into space, legs akimbo. The stillness of its ribcage is unsettling. Forcing himself to tear his eyes away he calls out, "Scott? I got Bambi's mom over here!"

A crashing sound through the undergrowth announces Scott's presence at his side.

"Anything where you were?" Stiles asks, his eyes almost unable to look away from the doe's, as if some sort of magnetic force was compelling him to witness her fate.

"No, nothing out of the usual," Scott distractedly replies, leaning in for a closer look.

"Well…can you use your-" he gestures at Scott's everything, "you know, to work out what did this?"

"They smell…off somehow. Sick, but not in an illness way if that makes sense…" he trails off, his attention caught elsewhere behind a thicket just beyond the doe.

Sick…but not sick. Because that makes a lot of sense. He wisely chooses not to question Scott's veterinary abilities lest he be forced to carry the body bag back. Stiles carefully prods the doe with a rubber toed shoe, startling when it moves slightly with the movement. He swiftly checks to make sure no one saw his freak out.

"I've got Bambi," calls Scott despondently.

Something in Stiles' chest shatters just a little bit when he spies the tiny, fragile body curled up in the grass just a few feet away. It was barely a week old at best. A heavy sense of grief sinks in Stiles' chest, temporarily overriding any revulsion at seeing the unnaturally still figure. With only a little bit of squeamishness on Stiles' behalf, they gently secure the fawn in the heavy-duty bag.

"It's just a baby…what could have done something like this? _Who_ could have done something like this?" pleads Stiles.

Scott meets his eyes, "Sometimes there isn't anyone to blame. It's probably some sort of sickness. Don't read too much into it, dude. I'm sure its nothing that's _our_ kind of issue."

Stiles hums disbelievingly. "If you say so, but for the record, this is suspicious as hell, ok?"

They mark the location of the two deer on the map and fend off wayward branches to make their way to the water's edge. They're almost within sight of it when Stiles comes to an abrupt halt.

"Do you hear that?"

Scott's brow furrows in confusion, tilting his head to listen intently, "Hear what?"

"Exactly." There's a vacuum of sound. A palpable and ominous lack of anything. No birds. No insects. No rustling. Not even a slight breeze, where before the wind was biting. It's as though the world has been paused. There's something deeply unnatural about the pervading, cloying stillness.

Stiles lets a shaky breath escape him, feeling almost suffocated by the oppressive quiet. Silently, he unscrews a specimen jar from the bag. He clacks the lid shut on the jar in the air between their faces.

"What?" he questions belligerently to Scott's incredulous stare, "It could be airborne!" he shrugs.

Scott rolls his eyes, exasperated as he turns away to head to the water line. "Better freakin' not be airborne," Stiles mutters to himself.

He rushes after Scott, watching his footing on the slippery moss only to collide heavily into Scott's motionless back, letting out an aggrieved _oof_ as the air was forced from his lungs. Scott doesn't move an inch, too busy intently focusing on his senses, head turning this way and that as he draws long breaths in through his nose.

Stiles' impatience gets the better of him. "Well? This is some hinky shit, right? Like, call the Scooby Gang type weird?"

"Smells…like a creek?" Scott shrugs as he unscrews a specimen jar lid.

Stiles can't shake the feeling that something is not right though. It's unnaturally still. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise slowly as a tingle of unease prickles through him. The almost imperceptible feeling on eyes, watching, waiting. He tries to catch a glimpse of movement or a gleam of eyes in his peripherals but nothing.

He snatches at Scott's jacket sleeve as he steps towards to water's edge. "Dude, no. My spidey sense is tingling. Danger Will Robinson."

Scott huffs a laugh, "Well my wolfy sense says it's just water," he gestures at the tranquil pool of water with a shrug. "C'mon, man," a sympathetic expression painted across his face, "Is this really about the water? I know what happened to you-"

"This is _not_ about what happened to me," Stiles bites back.

"I dunno. Kinda seems like it is? Just let me take this sample and we'll head back, ok?" Scott says, trying to placate him.

"Scott, man, I'm telling you, don't. Something's not right about this. Let's come back with Deaton or…or Argent," Stiles pleads.

"It's fine, Stiles, honestly." Scott scoops up a sample of the water, sloshing it over the rim as he tightens the lid. He wipes his damp fingers on his jeans as he approaches the bag to label the jar. Noting the location on the map, Scott takes the bag and walks to the next point indicated by Deaton, where the stream flowing in meets the body of water. Stiles watches Scott warily as he collects water sample after water sample, labeling them dutifully. After several long, excruciatingly silent minutes, Scott returns, the jars' clinking muffled by the satchel.

"We're done here."

"Thank God," Stiles blurts in relief, "I was sure that something bad was going to happen."

Scott whirls around, irritated, "Like what? What did you honestly expect to happen? A Kraken or something would just burst out of the lake and eat us? You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?"

Taken aback, Stiles argues, "Not a Kraken, no. I just thought-"

"You thought what, Stiles?" sighs Scott tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose between pinched fingers. His whole body seeming to crumble under the effort of trying to make Stiles see sense.

It makes Stiles pause. If Scott couldn't sense anything maybe he was just overreacting. It wouldn't be the first time he's blown something out of proportion.

Hesitating Stiles asks, "So…You're telling me you didn't feel like something was watching us back there?"

"No, dude. I think you've been shut up in your room for the last two weeks and the paranoia has gotten to your head." Stiles flinches as though struck. His heart thumps in his chest, breaths hitching as he begins to panic.

Scott flattens his expression and attempts a calm, yet firm tone. He's not entirely successful. There's a clear note of impatience and condescension. "You might've missed the last two weeks of term, but the rest of the pack didn't. We've processed and started to move on. There was nothing there. It's all in your head. I don't want to hear any more about this ok? For your own sake."

That hurts a lot more than he wants to admit. One of his greatest fears after all the supernatural nonsense was to be left behind and forgotten as his friends enjoyed their new life…their _better_ life without him in it. Maybe Scott's right. Maybe it is all in his head and the nogitsune did more damage than he realises.

But there's a niggling undercurrent to his thoughts. Stiles can't shake the feeling that something is off. Stiles reluctantly nods his acceptance, despite feeling as though he's crumbling on the inside with Scott's harsh words.

Instantly, Scott brightens.

"Good. Hey, have you played that new zombie Xbox game everyone at school's been talking about? Man, I'm so keen…"

Stiles tunes out Scott's excited rambling, unease coursing through him at Scott's behavior.

 _'Forget the Scooby Gang, I need the Winchesters,'_ he thinks.

Stiles sits in the driver's side of the jeep in the animal clinic car park, eyes following Scott's entrance through the staff door in the rear-view mirror. He'd fumbled some excuse about needing to do groceries to make dinner after his dad's shift to get some space to think. Rubbing his thumb absently against the ridges in his steering wheel he considers what Scott had said. Perhaps he is seeing things that aren't there. Looking for patterns where there are only coincidences. Stuck in a rut of hyper vigilance against threats that don't exist.

Stiles unlocks his phone and scrolls down his contacts list. Phone ringing, he holds it to his ear.

"Stiles? Everything ok?" his Dad's voice sounding tinny from the speakers.

"Yeah…so I did what you asked and hung out with Scott for a bit."

His relieved sigh is audible through the phone, "See? It wasn't so bad, was it?"

Stiles hesitates, still rattled from Scott's brutal honesty.

"While I've got you here," his Dad continues, "do you have an updated contact number or address for Isaac Lahey? We looked in the system, but he applied for emancipation after his dad's death and he's not living in that house anymore. If it wasn't Christmas vacation we'd catch him at school, but…"

"Oh…uh, yeah, last I heard he was staying at the McCall's place. Why, what's up?"

"I'm still out on call at the cemetery. City council's having us contact all the next of kin of the affected memorials. Unfortunately for Isaac, his brother and his father's grave sites have been impacted by this flooding. This whole section's gotta be moved. CDC and health and safety are swarming around this mess."

Unable to stomach the thought, Stiles hums, "Yeah…I'm not bringing you lunch at work today."

"Couldn't if you tried kiddo, Parrish wasn't kidding about crowd control. There's a hell of a lot of concerned families and wanna be journalists just waiting for some news at the gates. As for Isaac, just… don't tell him yourself Stiles, it's a hell of a thing to hear second hand. Either Parrish or I will tell him later today."

"So, you're working a double today then I guess."

"You guess right. We're still short-staffed after…everything. It's gonna take a lot of clean up before this mess is sorted."

A surge of guilt floods through him at the words his dad didn't say. He knows the oni decimated the station and the hospital, but he'd been willfully ignoring it until now.

"So…what do you think caused it? Y'know, the damage and all?"

Stiles can almost hear the Sheriff's confused pause before he responds, "Water? It's a flood, Stiles."

"You don't think this was…an _us_ kinda problem? I mean, Scott and I just got back from collecting water samp-"

"Stiles. It's a city council planning problem. There's no _us_ ," he stresses, "about it. They should've built those banks up long ago, it was only a matter of time before it flooded with a bit of rain."

"But don't you—"

"No, Stiles. I don't," the Sheriff says firmly. "This is you, reading too much into things and hopping aboard the detective train." He continues softly, "Son, I know you just want to help. To make up for the way things happened. But this isn't how you do it. You're seeing monsters in the shadows, kid. Sometimes a shadow is just a shadow."

Stiles' mouth clicks shut and he swallows harshly. His eyes prickle and burn with unshed tears. His fear of looking stupid, yet again, forces him to keep his words down.

"Do you need to talk to someone about your anxiety, kiddo?"

"No! No…I'm fine. Honestly. You're right. I was just being paranoid and getting ahead of myself."

"Stiles…" his dad placates. Stiles just can't deal with the sad, soft approach right now. He can almost imagine the expression on his father's face – forehead crumpled in concern, lips tightly pressed together in worry. Stiles can't help the instinctive reaction to withdraw from the imagined disappointment.

He gets out a faint, "I'll see you when you get home. Later, Dad. Be safe", before he presses the call end button harshly, fingers trembling.

He meets his own eyes in the rear-view mirror, dark under eye circles looking like bruises in the light. His amber-flecked eyes bore into the reflection, waiting for a flicker, a glimpse of something not himself. His own determined eyes stare back.

"The nogitsune is gone," he whispers, looking for a lie in his gaze. But his fierce stare remains unchallenged, unchanged.

"It's all in my head," he states as though trying to convince himself.

A flicker of doubt sparks in his eyes.

Water sluices down Allison's dark hair, caressing her curves and languidly swirling down the drain, the sultry steam from the hot shower enveloping her. It's almost too much, looking down at her form, oblivious to his presence. She's so close. He can't touch. Not directly, but the blissful satisfaction of dripping down her supple skin like this is enough for now. Unthinkingly, she reaches a hand up for the shower gel bottle and releases a sharp hiss from between her teeth. Allison carefully touches gentle fingertips to the water-proof bandage, it's blinding white stark against the dark, mottled bruising marring her chest. She takes carefully measured breaths, careful not to exert strain on her still healing ribs and sutures. Despite the haze of pain, she catches the sound of a voice sighing her name seemingly close by. Her heart thumps in her chest, eyes skittering to the opaque shower curtain concealing the bathroom from sight. She takes hesitant steps, careful to avoid splashing in the run-off water at her feet. Grasping at the curtain's edge, she peeks out – into her empty bathroom.

"Is somebody there?" Allison calls out, clutching the curtain to her frame.

A faint sound of heels on wood and then, "Allison? Are you alright? Do you need help getting out of the shower?" Lydia's muffled voice echoes through the closed bathroom door.

Hand returning to her aching side, she calls out, voice reverberating oddly in the enclosed space, "No. I'm fine. I just thought I heard…something. Be out in a minute!"

Lydia's dubious, "Ok, I'll just be outside then," is followed by the sound of Lydia's heels clicking on the floor in retreat.

The once comforting, heady steam is now cloying, its tendrils feeling more like ghostly fingers in the cold air of the bathroom. A faint alarm bell is still ringing in the back of her skull, almost positive she heard her name called. A tingling feeling of impending claustrophobia engulfs her. She reaches out and switches off the shower, never taking her eyes off the motionless bathroom. Fingers curling in the downy softness of her towel, she quickly wraps herself in it. Shielding herself from invisible, prying eyes.

She shakes her head, feeling foolish, wet hair clinging to the back of her neck. Harshly, she swipes the condensation from the mirror above the sink, and glares at herself, hands clinging to the chilled edge of the porcelain sink.

Her voice rings with conviction. "You're stronger than this. Don't let it get to you."

A knock interrupts her attempt to bolster herself. She lets out a noise of assent before Lydia enters the bathroom, arms laden with medical supplies.

Allison drops onto the stool set aside for her, hands still clutching the towel tightly to her chest. Hawk-like eyes watching Lydia set up the things she needs to replace her wound dressings.

"Okay, back first," Lydia mutters, as Allison rearranges the towel to expose the bandage on her back.

Lydia waits several long seconds, focused on carefully prizing sticky adhesive edges from Allison's skin before she breaks the silence. "So, do you want to tell me what that was about?", she asks in a curious tone, reserving judgment.

Allison swallows, unsure if she wants to expose yet another weak point. She's never felt more useless during her recovery from the oni. She knows she should consider herself lucky, but the fact she's out of commission for so long stings. But if anyone knows about feeling vulnerable and like they can't trust their own mind, it's Lydia.

"It's…like there's this sense of awareness telling…no – warning me that I'm missing something. Like someone's calling my name just out of sight but no one else hears it. This… feeling of eyes watching my every move but there's never anyone there. It's like trying to catch a glimpse of something out the side of your eye but you're never fast enough."

Lydia hums in consideration. In careful tones she asks, "Do you think this is like last time? When you were seeing Kate after the nemeton?"

Allison considers it carefully. "I'm not sure."

Lydia meets her eyes in the reflection above the sink. "It sounds like it could be a result of this," she says, gently dabbing at the vicious line of her sutures, "you went through something traumatic. It's bound to leave more scars than the physical ones."

Allison drags her eyes away from the reflection of Lydia's and focuses on herself. Eyes glistening wetly, jaw clenched as she struggles to contain her emotions.

She cuts her eyes away, unable to look any longer.

She whispers softly, ears straining to catch her own voice, "Yeah. I suppose you're right."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Some Jessica Jones references - you don't need to have seen the show, just know that it mentions issues of mind controlled consent in sexual circumstances and feelings of violation. Nothing Teen Wolf hasn't touched on before with Jennifer Blake. See end note for timeline handwaving._

 _Apologies if the formatting with the texting plays up - it looks fine on doc manager and then uploads incorrectly :( I can't seem to fix it for some reason.  
_

 _Place names mentioned by Derek and Stiles are all real. The places Derek mentions really happened to be on the road trip from an educated guess on where Beacon Hills is to the Payette preserve and I couldn't just let that amazing coincidence go!_

* * *

The setting sun casts Stiles' room in a sepia glow, glinting off the crumpled Doritos' bags strewn haphazardly across the desk. On the bed, Stiles is collapsed onto his side, face half smothered by his pillow. His laptop balanced precariously on its left-hand edge, propped up by another pillow. The illuminated screen asks if he's still there and wants to continue watching. With vacant eyes he absentmindedly moves his cursor to select ' _Continue Watching'_ , headphones once again blaring the _Jessica Jones_ theme.

The sheriff stands in the doorway in rumpled sweats, eyebrows raised at the sight before him. Silently, he walks over the bedroom floor to hover unnoticed behind Stiles. Reaching over, he pulls an earbud from Stiles' ear, startling Stiles so much that he windmills his arms wildly in fright, accidentally yanking the audio cable from the laptop.

"I don't know whether to be impressed that you've worked out how to watch tv lying down or disappointed in your life choices," sighs his Dad with false rue as Stiles rushes to pause the loud music emanating from his laptop.

"I'm going to go with impressed if that's one of the options on the table," Stiles glibly replies, flopping onto his back, starfishing onto the mattress.

"Do I want to know how much Mountain Dew you've drunk in the last 24 hours?" he asks, glancing at the detritus of a Netflix binge piled up around Stiles' bedroom.

"Um…no. No, you do not." Stiles scrubs at his face vigorously, trying to wake himself out of his fugue faster, "What time 'sit? When did you get in?", he squints bleary eyes at the red numbers on his alarm clock.

"It's near 5 o'clock Stiles! Don't tell me you've been watching Netflix since we spoke yesterday…", the Sheriff sighs.

"I plead the fifth?"

"Stiles! That was noon yesterday I spoke to you on the phone! Are you seriously telling me you've been watching stuff on the internet for over 24 hours?"

"No, definitely not," Stiles denies. "…I had a nap in there somewhere. I think."

His dad eyes the ceiling as though pleading for divine help for his irreverent son. "Well I know it's early, but I'm starved, so whenever you're hungry there's pizza downstairs."

Stiles perks up like an overeager puppy, "Pizza? I suppose I could allow it just this once…"

"How gracious of you," his dad deadpans, leading the way to the kitchen, Stiles scrambling to follow.

Stiles collapses into his chair at the kitchen table, snatching a slice from the still piping hot box, not bothering with a plate.

"No plans with Scott today?" asks the sheriff, snagging two pieces of meat covered pizza for his own.

"Nah," Stiles manages past a mouthful of pizza, "faid he waff gonna hang ou' wif Ifaac after…you know," he gesticulates with the hand holding the slice, ignoring his father's look of faint disgust at the sight of his half-chewed food.

His father hums in sympathy, "I feel for him. It's a disaster to try and fix. I'm grateful it doesn't fall under the department's purview. And I know his father was…"

"An abusive dickwad?"

The sheriff gives him a warning glance, "well…yes. But his brother's site has to be relocated too. Can't be easy on a seventeen-year-old. If it were your mother…"

Stiles gives a non-committal hum as he spares a moment to be grateful that Isaac quit working there after ownership passed back into the council's hands. Being responsible for digging your family's grave sites…he represses a shudder. He haphazardly shovels more pizza in his mouth in a bid to avoid continuing this conversation.

"Well, what did you and Scott get up to yesterday? You said something about Deaton's?"

Okay, so maybe the Isaac conversation was a better choice of topic.

A shuttered look crosses Stiles face as he swallows heavily. Eyes avoiding his father's curious stare he chooses his words carefully to prevent a repeat of their phone call yesterday, "Yeah, Deaton had us collecting water samples in the preserve. There've been some animal…issues. He wants to find out if the water's been contaminated."

A grimace twists his dad's features, finishing his mouthful he mutters, "Oh, it's contaminated all right. Do me a favor and stay away from Oak Creek and that whole end of the preserve."

Stiles sits forward in interest, leaning an elbow on the table in feigned casualness. "Oh, and why's that?"

The sheriff fixes him with a deadpan stare. "No. You know you can't get involved in cases."

"But it'll take my mind off things. Distract me, y'know?"

"You think a suspected homicide is a good distraction from all the other homicides around here lately?"

Stiles reels back as though struck, hurt-filled eyes darting away from his father.

The sheriff's eyes widen as he realizes what he said. "No, Stiles, that wasn't me blaming you! You are not responsible for any of it. I was talking about the Derark-"

"Darach."

"Yes, her. And the kanima. Or well, not the kanima really, was it? I mean, do you blame Jackson and the kanima when it was really Matt using him like a puppet?"

"But I let it in, dad. That is my fault."

For a long moment the only sound in the small dining room is the ticking clock above the mantle.

"Son, I know you believe that. But you need to listen to Mrs. Yukimura, she's the expert in all this. I know you two had that special tea after it was trapped again, why don't you believe her?"

"Because it _told_ me!" Stiles exploded, "It told me it had to be let in. I know it was my fault, I left the door open-"

The sheriff interrupts, grabbing Stiles hand from its white-knuckled grip on the wooden table top. "The nogitsune was a thousand years old. You are 17 years old. You really think it needed to be let in voluntarily? That a thousand-year-old demon needed _your_ permission?" Stiles' rapidly welling eyes stay laser focused on a knot in the wooden table top, jaw clenching with repressed emotion.

"Look at me. Look at me, Stiles!" Stiles drags his gaze reluctantly to meet his father's determined, unflinching blue eyes.

Noah forcibly maintains the eye contact, his son's eyes desperately guilt-ridden. "It could have forced possession of you at any time. Hell, it took you for a joyride when you were sleeping. Think about what Mrs. Yukimura said. You wanna be a detective? Start thinking like one," he pleads. "Think about its MO – to create and feed off chaos and strife. It was manipulating you to _think_ you had to let it in, but that was part of its game. It was consuming the strife and guilt it caused you when you thought you were responsible."

"It was all part of its game," Stiles whispers to himself, voice cracking in horror-struck realization.

"Kid, it managed to fake your scan results to a room full of people. This thing was well out of our pay grade. I mean…the illusions it could create…" he trails off, lost in disturbed memories. "And well… you're great and all son. But you're kidding yourself if you think something that powerful could be held back with a simple 'no'."

His dad gives the hand he's covering with is own a comforting squeeze before withdrawing slowly. The loss of his touch leaving Stiles bereft for the lack of the warmth and contact. He hadn't realized just how negatively his self-imposed isolation would affect him. That his lack of physical interaction in the last few weeks could be so detrimental to his mindset.

His voice escapes him in a croaky whisper, "I never thought about it like that…"

"Well, that's my job. To see the parts of the puzzle and put 'em together. You had the pieces, you were just arriving at a different conclusion," Noah muses.

"Guess I couldn't see the forest for the trees."

"Most people can't when it comes to their own problems." His dad pauses, hand reaching out to hover over a nondescript file on the edge of the table. Tapping it thoughtfully he ponders, "It also seems to be a problem Parrish and I are working on right now…"

"You helped me see my forest…can I help you with this?" Stiles asked hopefully, voice gaining in resolve. The desire for a win, for some sort of success to help him rise from the ashes is almost palpable. This he might be able to do. He's good at making those odd connections. At analyzing information and coming up with solutions, no matter how eccentric some of those solutions may be.

His dad gives him a considering look, assessing him for some unspoken quality. He worries that he'll be found lacking. That his dad won't trust him with this or think he's useful enough to contribute.

"Alright then," he says, dragging the file closer. "But you have to promise me that you won't go around talking about this. Not even to Scott, okay? If you have ideas about it you bring them to me, you don't go around snooping yourself. Got it?"

Stiles nods his head enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically if the look on his dad's face is anything to go by. He dials it back a little, "Got it. Yep. My lips are sealed," he adds with a zipping motion.

The sheriff throws him a squinty-eyed glance before flipping open the cover of the case file.

"Ok, so we have a suspected homicide of one Daniel Ellis. 22 years old, lived in Beacon Hills since he was 10. Still lived with his parents." He taps a printed DMV license photo and slides it to the side. "Body was found by hikers near the Oak Creek bridge in the water-"

"Shouldn't people just stop hiking in the preserve? Seriously, I mean how many bodies do they have to find before they just use a walking trail in the park like all the other soccer moms? Although, perfect cover for a murderer…" Stiles muses to himself.

A cleared throat interrupts his train of thought. He looks up to meet his father's unimpressed gaze. "Do you want me to continue or leave you to it?" Stiles mimes the mouth zipping once more, a faintly embarrassed flush rising in his cheeks.

"His body was found face down in the water," he hesitates, fingers on the corner of the upside down photograph, "are you sure you want to see this? I'll understand if you're not up for it."

"Hit me," he says, looking braver than he feels. The photo is flipped face-up onto the space between them with a soft flutter.

"Ok, take a look at these and tell me what you see," his dad says, laying out a spread of four more photographs depicting different angles of the body.

Stiles drags the closest photo towards him with a single finger. He looks over the details in the photo carefully, eyes scanning every inch of the frame. The victim – Daniel Ellis, he reminds himself, is face down in the water, but his knees and feet are still on the rough pebbly bank. He picks up another photo and holds it up side by side, eyes flicking between the two images to compare details. Hands and fingers are a stark bleached color, riddled with wrinkles but despite the water damage look neat and clean, he muses. No signs of bruised knuckles or damaged nails from scratching an attacker. He selects another photo, this time a close up of Ellis' face. As sickly bluish-purple tinge makes Ellis' once handsome face grotesque, his features suffering from the effects of lividity. Lips a swollen mess of water-logged indigo, pale eyes bulging in an unsettling way. Something twists in Stiles' stomach as he studies the image, turning it face down on the table to avoid meeting the endless blank stare. He must have been drowned overnight and been found several hours later, Stiles calculates, judging by the coloration. He studies another photo, this one of his partially submerged feet and legs. His feet look well worn, dirt-streaked, covered in leaf litter, faintly bloody scratches marring the soles. That's when it clicks…who goes barefoot in December for a walk? The thin flannel pajama pants and tee would do little to protect from the recent chilly winds. Even though it doesn't snow in Beacon Hills, winter can still be a drizzly miserable affair.

"Ok, son, what do you notice. Lay it out for me," his dad meets his eyes expectantly. He looks calm and confident in Stiles ability to solve a problem. Something he desperately needs after having his confidence so ruthlessly shattered lately.

Stiles takes a moment to gather his thoughts, trying not to blurt his initial suspicions out childishly. He doesn't want to risk his dad taking back the enormous amount of trust he's showing by letting him in on such a serious case. "Umm. Ok. So, guy obviously looks like he's drowned, right? But it's a really strange place to drown in? Like, I'm thinking it's not suicide because the water is so shallow here and he's partway on the bank," his dad nods in agreement so far. "So it looks like this is a murder…except he doesn't have any defensive marks? No scratches, bruises, no broken nails, nothing. If someone had managed to drown him there wouldn't he have been able to fight back a little? Unless he was dumped there when he was unconscious?"

His dad nods, a proud look in his eye. "You're right, there are no signs that indicate a struggle," he holds up a finger, "however," he stresses, "tox screen came back negative. No drugs in his system and no signs of head trauma."

Stiles blinks, taken aback. "Ok…but the pajamas, the bare feet in winter. I don't think he would have walked all the way out to Oak Creek like that willingly. It's been cold as hell lately, forget going outside in that. So, what, you're thinking…killed somewhere else and dumped? What was the cause of death?"

The Sheriff collects the photos into a neat pile off to the side, swapping them out for another set. "That was our suspicion too, so we went to his residence– "

Stiles frowns, scrunching his brow in concentration, "But doesn't he live with his parents?"

"Ahh, he does, but in a self-contained basement apartment with its own external door. His parents said it's not unusual to not hear from him in the morning since he does night shift janitorial work at Beacon Memorial. They assumed he was working until we turned up." He spreads out the second set of photos, these ones showing the interior of the apartment and the front door. "Take a look at these and tell me what you think."

A spark of inquisitive interest lights Stiles' eyes as he picks up the first photo – a wide shot of a small, dingy kitchen. There's a significant puddle on the linoleum floor beneath the still running faucet, sink overflowing. Stiles furrows his brow. Why would the faucet still be running? Wouldn't the killer have turned it off to avoid…noise? The upstairs part of the house mustn't be able to hear if there's a commotion downstairs…and judging by the reflected shine of water sloughed around the floor and the walls there was clearly something unusual going on.

"The sink is plugged and the faucet's still running…any ideas why?"

His father hums in consideration, "In too much of a hurry to turn it off? Avoid leaving prints behind? The only prints we found on the faucet belonged to the vic. There were trace amounts of his blood in the water and edge of the sink too. There's a chance the perp was planning on returning to the scene to do clean up but we got there first."

Stiles skims his eyes over a shot of the kitchen walkway leading to an aged, heavy door standing wide open. The red, peeling paint stark against the white interior walls of the hall where it has swung inward. He lays that photo out to his right, trying to piece the imagery together to come up with any clues, some sort of narrative that fits the scene. His eyes catch on the faint, wet outline of what he first assumed were smaller puddles. Bare footprints leading from the kitchen, down the hall, and out the door. They're lucky the water hadn't evaporated yet…but the footprints seem…normal? There's no sign of staggered gait, no detours, just normal walking steps out the door. Puzzled, he selects one of the images which show the wet markings in more detail. There are other prints right near the ones he assumes are Daniel Ellis'. Stiles tilts the glossy paper as he racks his brain to identify the odd markings. It's difficult to make out because the water has splashed and ruined any chance of seeing a distinct shape. There's one particular trace that almost looks like a wide, round-toed work boot, but there's what looks like a deep V shape cut into the sole…and he can't see a matching heel print through the mess. But as he looks at the other photos there's a faint, yet distinct impression of overlapping footprints. He casts a critical eye over the rest of the apartment he can see in the photographs. Tv, DVD's, speaker system are all intact. There's a bookshelf lined with sporting trophies and delicate knick-knacks that haven't been jostled in the slightest despite Ellis walking past.

"It looks like he just walks out of the apartment," Stiles mutters, disbelief plain on his features. "I mean, it looks like there was some sort of struggle at the kitchen sink. I would have bet that he was drowned in that sink and dumped in the creek to make it look like an accident…but then why would he walk out the door? I mean, the only wet prints in the house are heading towards the exit. Unless the bare footprints don't belong to Ellis?" he theorizes, chewing his nail-bitten fingers in concentration.

"That's a good catch," impressed pride ringing in his dad's voice. "But we've already matched the size and shape to Ellis. Unless someone has the exact same sized feet, they're his most likely. The prints are too consistent with a normal walking gait - if the perp were carrying Ellis' body the weight would throw off their steps. Or," he points out a narrow section of passageway next to the bookcase, "they would have had to squeeze past this part here without knocking anything off the shelf. Hard thing to do when you're carrying a grown man."

Rifling through the photos to find the hall, Stiles points at the strange markings, "What about the second set of prints though? What kind of shoe leaves those marks?"

Astonished surprise flits across his dad's face, a broad grin splitting his expression. "Kid, you're going to make an excellent detective one day. Do you know how many of the deputies missed that?"

Warm, flickers of pride burn in Stiles' chest. An unremitting smile bringing joyful sparks to his eyes. Sparks that have been missing for far too long. He covers his obvious satisfaction with a dismissive hand wave. "I mean, it's obvious once you see it. Dunno how they missed it, here," he snatches some pens from the basket of stuff on the corner of the kitchen bench. He carefully outlines Ellis' footprints in blue and traces the edges of the other boot print in red. "I can see one clear print here," he mutters, taking care to be precise with the ink. "And I think there's the edge of one here, but Ellis stepped on top of it." Stiles suddenly whips his head up, wide-eyed from an unexpected revelation, "Or did they step onto Ellis' prints to hide theirs?"

His father gives him a grim smile, "That one's a little harder to work out. It's important to know too – was he following someone or was someone forcing him out the door? We won't know unless we find some security footage or get a confession," he shrugs. "Sometimes it's one of those things that takes a long time to be answered. _If_ it ever gets answered. Parrish is working on finding a shoe that matches that particular print," he points to the round-toed mark left behind, "but we haven't had any luck yet. We're not entirely sure if that notch out of the bottom means they're special shoes or if it's just the way the water spilled."

Stiles pinches the photo between two fingers and holds it a few inches from his face to study the strange semi-circular markings, humming in thought. "I noticed that there's no matching heel print? Well, none that I could see but it's a bit of a mess. Any ideas why?"

A chuckle escapes the sheriff's lips. "You know when you're driving somewhere and you turn the radio down when you're looking for an address? Same thing, people just seem to instinctively tiptoe when they don't want to get caught."

Stiles smirks at the thought of an enormous, burly thief tiptoeing around a house, "Well shouldn't they have shut the door if they didn't want to get caught?"

"Yeah, there's a few things Parrish and I can't make heads or tails of. We suspect it may have been the father, neighbors have called in noise complaints before for their arguing. Seems the dad was pushing for him to get his own place or pay rent. That's possibly enough for a motive, hell, I've heard of people killing each other over next to nothing. But are you ready for the kicker? COD makes no sense."

"His cause of death? He drowned, right? Kinda looks like he was held down in the sink and then dumped in the creek as a way to hide it."

"It looks that way, yeah. But if he was drowned in his sink like the scene suggests, how did he walk out of his own volition? Here's what's really strange though, post-mortem of his airways suggests that he drowned peacefully."

"Peacefully? Is that even possible? Shouldn't fight or flight kick in?" Stiles thinks back to his own drowning. Icy water snatching his breath away, hands gripping his shoulders, lungs burning, struggling to reach the surface…

"It should yes, but there's no evidence of any kind of lung trauma that usually occurs in drowning. So the coroner suspects he was unconscious. Not asleep, but completely unconscious. We just can't work out how- no drugs and no head trauma. What's more - samples from his lungs show filtered water with traces of sodium lauryl sulfate. Dishwashing liquid. Evidence suggests he drowned in his sink water. But we can't explain how he walked out of his own apartment after and made it all the way to Oak Creek. The evidence on his feet suggests that he did walk – there's no sign of dragging on his clothes and we could follow his trail to the creek," he slumps back in his chair, perplexed.

Stiles snatches up the photos again, scanning them with a critical eye once more. "That makes no sense though. We must have overlooked something," he hesitates, taking a careful breath and meeting his father's eyes guardedly. "Are…are you _sure_ this isn't something supernatural?"

Noah's mouth twists, his eyelids slamming shut as though wishing he could unhear the question. Stiles can hear the carefully measured breaths his father takes like he's repressing his frustration. It hurts. The thought that he can't even broach the topic without triggering some sort of annoyed pity from everyone. Like they think he's just too damaged, too traumatized to see anything other than monsters in the shadows. The irony that he's become the boy who cries wolf is not lost on him.

Lurching from his chair, nearly bowling it over, he leaps to his feet in an attempt to escape the judgmental look on his father's face. Hurriedly, he shuffles the photos into a haphazard pile, tossing them onto the file folder. "You know what? That was stupid of me. There's obviously something missing and honestly, what could I know about solving crimes? I'm just a stupid seventeen year old after all-"

"Stiles, wait—"

"I'm tired. Night dad." He bolts up the stairs, closing his door none-too-gently. Shucking his clothes roughly, he flicks the light switch and hides under the covers. Just wanting to shut the world out for a little while. He hears the soft steps of his father hesitate outside his door. He waits for the knock. But it never comes. Sighing in relief, he reminds himself to relax, the tension in his frame burning through his limbs.

A surge of shame floods through him, his chest feeling like an anchor dragging him down. Running away from confrontation like that was immature. Embarrassment heats his cheeks – he stormed off and hid in his bed like a temperamental child. Flipping the covers off his head he stares up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. It's far too early to actually go to sleep, despite what he may have said. He looks around for something to occupy his time. He's sure as hell not leaving his room now and losing face even more. His eyes skip over the still ajar laptop, the Netflix tab awaiting him. He makes a moue of distaste, _Jessica Jones_ was a poor choice to watch, Marvel or not. Kilgrave does something too similar to possession for his taste to enjoy the storyline. Kilgrave's manipulation of those girls to be in a sexual relationship with him chills him to the bone.

It stirs up lingering remorse over what happened in Eichen House. He knows that he was supposed to be free of the nogitsune's influence after Deaton jabbed him…but he cannot in his right mind believe that he would have hooked up with Malia in the basement. But that's the thing – he wasn't in his right mind. Besides the fact that he was in the basement of a _mental institution_ where Malia was a patient, there's also the fact that she was last human when she was nine years old. There's no way she progressed mentally enough to fully comprehend the nuances of sex, let alone consent. He's infinitely grateful it never got that far, but at the same time disgusted by himself. It's too coincidental for them to be so suddenly attracted to each other just as the nogitsune needed leverage over him to 'let him in'. Stiles scoffs in revulsion, not that any of it was necessary. Just another fucked up game to mess with him and revel in the chaos it caused with Oliver's death. It must have been having a field day, an all expenses paid tour Stiles took him on. He knows he's been a bit of a dick ignoring her. It wasn't her fault, after all, she was under the influence just as much as he was. That's something he can change though, he resolves. Swiping his phone from where it lies abandoned on his bedside table, he unlocks it.

 **Stiles | 6:05 pm |** _How's the road trip? You said you were going through Nevada?  
_ **Derek | 6:06 pm |** _1 Image Attached_

Stiles is impressed with the rapid reply. He'd always thought Derek was the kind of guy to leave messages on 'read'. He taps to open the attachment and lets out a barking laugh. It's been taken from someone holding the camera outside of the passenger window of Derek's new soccer mom van, looking back at the rear. Malia holds her head out the window, nose first. Eyes closed, an expression of pure bliss on her face. He tries hard to suppress the comparison to a dog on a car ride, but the similarities are too great to ignore.

 **Derek | 6:07 pm |** _Past Nevada We're meeting with the Alpha pair at Payette national forest tonight._

Stiles drags his laptop over so he can look up the location online. He knew Derek and Peter were going to help her find a coyote pack, but he didn't think it would be this quickly. He's been out of the loop for too long. Clark Lake seems to be a large area of wildlife refuge. Good place to hide a pack of full shifters, he guesses.

 **Stiles | 6:09 pm |** _Sounds like a good place for a pack to blend in.  
_ **Derek | 6:09 pm |** _They're the rangers there as well. It will be good for her to have other coyotes teach her the full shift._

Stiles raises his brow in appreciation. Sounds like a decent set up – access to human shops, ranger station and huge area of land to run in and hunt. The last he'd heard of Malia she was desperately unhappy pretending to be a functional human being. She'd spent too many of her formative years stuck in coyote mode. She'd said it was simpler as a coyote. That she didn't feel as much guilt over her family's death. He can see the appeal.

 **Derek | 6:10 pm |** _2 Images Attached_

Stiles opens the first one and snorts. It's a photo of Peter, arms folded, v-neck shirt two sizes too small, chin tilted up in an attempt at superiority. Behind him is a town name sign that reads _'ALPHA'._ Of course he would. Sometimes Stiles can see the shared sense of theatrical flair Peter and Derek share. No matter how much Derek tries to deny it, no one makes that many dramatic entrances and exits without it being partially deliberate.

He double taps to open the second image. This one is of Derek, comical grimace contorting his face with a thumb pointed over his shoulder at the ' _Welcome to McCall'_ sign. A caption he's added reads, _'Despite the name, a decent place.'_ Stiles laughs, it seems to be a relatively new development in Derek and Scott's relationship – the ability to poke fun at the other without malicious intent. It's just a shame it took an alpha pack for them to put aside their issues.

He taps away at the keys of his laptop, a cheeky grin on his face. Snapping a photo of his webpage screen, he sends back a photo of a roadmap – destination: Stiles, Texas.

 **Stiles | 6:12 pm |** _Attached: 1 Image  
_ **Stiles | 6:12 pm |** _You've clearly missed the best destination…  
_ **Derek | 6:14 pm |** _This seems more your style.  
_ **Derek | 6:14 pm |** _1 Image Attached_

Faint flutters of excitement race through Stiles at the thought of Derek playing along with his banter. He opens the attachment, anticipation building behind his ribcage like a balloon about to burst.

It's a map screenshot.

Of Shithead Studio, Indonesia.

An undignified cackle erupts out of Stiles, tears of mirth gathering in his eyes. It's been too long since he could let go and laugh like this. Since something has broken through his perpetual cloud of misery. But the lingering glance he gives the photo of Malia sobers him as though he'd been doused in icy water. He'd contacted Derek for a reason, he can't allow himself to get side tracked in making amends.

 **Stiles | 6:16 pm |** _Seriously tho. How is she? I feel like an ass for not checking in earlier.  
_ **Derek | 6:16 pm |** _She's struggling with human behavior expectations. She was a wild coyote for longer than she had a human sense of identity._

Most of the time Stiles thinks that he and Scott have handled the whole 'Beacon Hills Is A Hellmouth' thing well. Other times he wonders if they've done more harm than good. Malia might like some of the benefits of being human again, but at what cost? It feels like he's been punched in the chest. This is their fault. They didn't even consider that she'd be happier as a coyote.

 **Stiles | 6:17 pm |** _Tell her I'm sorry. For Eichen, too._

His phone lies dormant. Screen blank, there's no reply even as the minutes tick by. This was a mistake. He should have just shut those thoughts out and let her get on with her life without him trampling all over it.

 **Derek | 6:25 pm |** _She says don't be. Being human again she gets best of both worlds. She wants to go on a roller coaster. Can't do that as a coyote._

 **Creepy Uncle | 6:26 pm |** _You should be sorry. Do you have any idea what kind of heathen you have subjected me to?  
_ **Creepy Uncle | 6:26 pm |** _The coyote is uncouth. Being deprived for so long I thought she may enjoy some of the finer things humanity has to offer. Revenge and maiming can only bring you so much happiness._

Stiles suppresses an awkward grimace. Well, he supposes, Peter would know all about being feral. His phone buzzes in quick succession.

 **Creepy Uncle | 6:27 pm |** _We went to a fantastic restaurant. Foods she had never tried before. Amazing seafood.  
_ **Creepy Uncle | 6:27 pm |** _She tells me her favorite food is deer. Deer, Stiles. My nephew, helpful as always, tells her it's the venison meal. She ordered it rare. She ate it with her fingers.  
_ **Creepy Uncle | 6:27 pm |** _HER FINGERS, STILES. In a 5 star restaurant! That's on you._

Stiles feels a sort of malicious glee bubbling inside him. He can just imagine Peter's insulted expression as Malia licks gravy from her fingers in some lavish candlelit place. In the short time he's known her she never cared about table manners, he can't see why she'd change that now.

 **Stiles | 6:29 pm |** _I'd say I'm sorry for that…but I'm really, really not.  
_ **Derek | 6:32 pm |** _Peter is muttering angrily under his breath about plebeians.  
_ **Derek | 6:32 pm |** _Is he telling you that story about the restaurant? I've heard it at least 4 times. And I was there.  
_ **Stiles | 6:33 pm |** _I've got no idea why he thought I'd be sympathetic. Tell her to eat with no hands next time  
_ **Derek | 6:34 pm |** _As crazy as it sounds- I think he likes you.  
_ **Derek | 6:34 pm |** _Or rather, he thinks you'll be useful to him one day and he's protecting an asset.  
_ **Stiles | 6:35 pm |** _Well who can resist this charming face?  
_ **Derek | 6:35 pm |** _Almost everyone. Constantly.  
_ **Stiles | 6:36 pm |** _Lies and slander!_

Stiles feels almost giddy at this little back and forth he's started developing with Derek. In his mind he knows that Derek isn't that much older than him. But his experiences have forced him to grow up faster than he should have. Stiles feels a pang of sympathy, he did a lot of growing up after his mom's death too, no matter how flamboyant he seems. This is one of those times that Stiles feels like he's aged on the inside. That he's too young to be dwelling on such serious issues. Gathering his nerve, he debates the topic he wanted to ask Derek about. His whole reason for starting this text chain in the first place but once again his brain led him off topic. It takes him a few nerve wracking minutes to get the words out. He's still on the verge of taking it all back when he forces himself to hit the send button.

 **Stiles | 6:40 pm |** _I have a serious question. You don't have to answer. I'm not trying to be an asshole.  
_ **Stiles | 6:40 pm |** _Did Malia tell you what happened to us at Eichen?  
_ **Derek | 6:41 pm |** _Briefly. Yes. Was that the question?  
_ **Stiles | 6:42 pm |** _No. I think the whole thing was the nogit. Making us feel that way. Making us do that.  
_ **Derek | 6:42 pm |** _It did seem a bit strange. I knew you were desperate but not that desperate._

Stiles reels back as though slapped. Is that really what Derek thinks of him? He knows he's play flirted with Danny a few times, sending out some feelers to work out whether that roiling in his gut is jealousy, admiration or desire but he'd never take advantage like that. His skin crawls with revulsion. Is that what Lydia has thought of him all this time? Fuck. Has he always been a creep? His phone buzzes again where it's clamped in his tense grip.

 **Derek | 6:44 pm |** _Sorry. That wasn't funny. I should know better. You wouldn't do that._

An actual apology? He must feel bad.

 **Stiles | 6:44 pm |** _Who's the asshole now?  
_ **Stiles | 6:44 pm |** _You're right though. I've crossed the line before with others.  
_ **Derek | 6:44 pm |** _You're young. You've learnt what that's like from the other side now.  
_ **Derek | 6:45 pm |** _What was your question?  
_ **Stiles | 6:45 pm |** _After…I felt violated. That's a strong word to choose for making out. But it's how I feel.  
_ **Stiles | 6:45 pm |** _I know Jennifer did something similar to you. Does this feeling ever go away?_

It's several painstaking minutes before he gets a reply.

 **Derek | 6:45 pm |** _Yes and no. You won't forget. But the right person won't make you relive it._

Stiles heart thumps painfully at the thought of Derek and some faceless stranger.

 **Stiles | 6:46 pm |** _Have you found a person then?  
_ **Derek | 6:46 pm |** _No. It's hard for me to trust now.  
_ **Derek | 6:47 pm |** _People are interested in me only for what they think they can get out of me. They don't actually care about me. It hasn't been worth it yet._

Surprise and concern battle each other in Stiles' head. He's astonished Derek would ever share something so personal. He's not known for it. But maybe that's the point. He's only really spoken to Derek when the shit was hitting the fan. They'd built a sense of comradery when they spent the summer looking for Erica and Boyd, sure, but at some point it must have crossed the line into actual full blown friendship. Stiles desperately wants to wave this realization of friendship around like a flag but knowing Derek he'd take it back with a grumpy scowl for causing a scene.

 **Derek | 6:48 pm |** _Why did you want to know?  
_ **Stiles | 6:48 pm |** _Watched Jessica Jones. Much regret.  
_ **Derek | 6:49 pm |** _I liked it. I can see why you wouldn't though.  
_ **Stiles | 6:50 pm |** _Wait. Hold up. You like Marvel? Why did I not know this before now?  
_ **Stiles | 6:50 pm |** _Holy shit. You ARE Jessica. How did I not see that before?!  
_ **Stiles | 6:50 pm |** _Tragic backstory  
_ **Stiles | 6:50 pm |** _Grumpy scowl  
_ **Stiles | 6:50 pm |** _Can punch dudes through a wall  
_ **Derek | 6:51 pm |** _I'm nothing like her.  
_ **Stiles | 6:51 pm |** G _rade A stalker!  
_ **Derek | 6:51 pm |** _Stiles.  
_ **Stiles | 6:51 pm |** _Leather. Jacket.  
_ **Derek | 6:52 pm |** _Whatever you say, Trish.  
_ **Stiles | 6:52 pm |** _Excuse me?  
_ **Derek | 6:52 pm |** _Doesn't stop talking  
_ **Derek | 6:52 pm |** _Always snooping. Want me to go on?  
_ **Stiles | 6:52 pm |** _This isn't over  
_ **Derek | 6:53 pm |** _It is for now – going to meet Alphas. Stay out of trouble.  
_ **Stiles | 6:53 pm |** _Have you met me?_

Lightning fast, his phone buzzes with Derek's response.

 **Derek | 6:52 pm |** _Unfortunately._

Stiles can't seem to wipe the smirk from his face. Derek seems…softer since sacrificing his alpha status. It's definitely a change for the better in his opinion. He can't imagine having this kind of teasing friendship when he was a surly alpha.

His moment of glee is short lived, however, when his phone once again buzzes in his hand. It's an incoming call from Lydia. Sharp edged guilt and panic race through his chest. Shit. Shitshitshit he never responded to her messages. He could easily ignore the call. Hit the red hang up button. Just pretend he never saw it ring. Who's he kidding? This is Lydia. Nothing more than faking his own death will get her off his trail. He sucks in a deep breath, gathering all his fortitude and hits the answer button, wincing as he brings the phone to his ear.

"Heeeeyyy Lydia, 'sup?"

"What's up? What's. Up?" Lydia's clipped voice a proverbial slap. He hears her audibly suck in a breath through the receiver before continuing, "I'll tell you 'what's up'. What's up is that I had to hear from Deaton that you've been out and about with Scott!"

"Uhh," is all Stiles manages before being loudly spoken over.

"How is it that you're ok to go gallivanting around the preserve with Scott but you can't find the time to return a simple text message or call?"

He opens his mouth the defend himself, she has no idea what it's been like for him—

"You couldn't even let me know that you're ok? Or that you're struggling and need some time? Did you ever stop to think that out of everyone I would understand what it's like to have someone else messing with your head? Or did you all just forget what Peter did to me?" The protest dries up in his throat, words catching. Damn, he hadn't even considered that.

He sighs softly into the phone, "I'm sorry. Lyds. I needed space from…well, everything."

"I get it. Stiles, I really do. But your friends are here to support you. Your _pack_ is here to help you. You didn't have to do this alone."

"I – I know. You guys have just done so much for me already. I didn't want to be a burden. Especially after Allison-"

"Stiles. Allison has been asking after you almost every day. If she wasn't on restricted movement you better believe she's be knocking your door down."

"I…kinda didn't think she'd care that much?"

"We're Team Human, Stiles. We've got to stick together. You, me, Allison and Danny."

Shock filters through Stiles. He didn't hear that right. "Wait. Run that by me again. You said Danny, right? As in tall, dark and Hawaiian Danny?"

"Yes, Danny. How many other Danny's do we know? And you better believe that we're going to revisit that tall, dark and handsome statement soon."

"Technically I said Hawaiian—" Stiles stutters.

Lydia hums in amusement, "Please, honey. We both know what you meant. There's this whole other side of you that's making so much sense now…" she muses.

"That's not important right now, Lydia! Danny? Since when was Danny…?" he trails off, confused.

"In Team Human, you mean? Mmm, turns out he knew the whole time. He dropped that little bombshell on Ethan when he left." Stiles can almost hear the impressed smirk in Lydia's voice.

Then it hits him, "Wait, Ethan's gone?"

"You missed a lot in your little self-imposed isolation. I saved your life, so you owe me now. I'll be expecting a girl's night – you, me, Allison and Kira soon." Stiles flounders, he can't seem to keep up with Lydia's casual revelation drops.

"But I'm not a—"

"Speaking of Allison," she interrupts, uninterested in whatever flimsy protest he could put up against the invitation, "you've been a recluse for too long now. You're picking her up to take her to and from her appointment, 4pm at the hospital tomorrow afternoon." Stiles tries to refuse but, "No, you're the only one who's free with a car. Mr Argent has a work meeting he can't reschedule, Scott's working that afternoon."

"Lydia," he manages to get out when she pauses to take a breath, "I don't think it's the best idea-"

"I'll order take out and invite the others over to Allison's place when you two are done."

Sensing that she's going to end this conversation on her terms, Stiles attempts to plead, "Lydia, I really don't—"

Lydia snaps, "4 pm. Don't be late," before Stiles is suddenly met with the dial tone.

* * *

End Notes:

...Yes, I do know Jessica Jones wasn't out that the canon time frame but it served a purpose for the themes of the conversation. We can just handwave that away like Jeff Davis does to inconsistencies in the timeline...

Thank you for reading! This is my first fic so know that I will love and appreciate any positive comments that may come this way!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N:

Enjoy this chapter! Please leave a comment if you liked it, they make my day!

Trigger Warning for this chapter: apparent suicide. Aftermath and body witnessed only. See end notes if you want basic details but to skip description (starts after " tune out the panic of bystanders" ends at "A tug at his hoody sleeve". It's mentioned later on though so read carefully.

* * *

Stiles eyed the ticking clock in his jeep with dread. 3:35 pm, it ticked menacingly. Time moving forward remorselessly despite Stiles wishing with all his imagined psychic powers that it would magically be tomorrow already so he wouldn't have to do this. He wasn't ready to face up to Allison yet despite what Lydia thought. Stiles glared intently at the ticking second hand, eye twitching, fingers pressed to his temple in his best Professor X impression. He could almost see the invisible force of his will, reaching out and stopping the clock—when a loud knock on the passenger window startled him violently out of his concentration. Arms floundering like a drowning man he accidentally honks the horn with a wayward elbow. He twists awkwardly, tangled in his seatbelt to face Allison, her lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, eyes twinkling with mirth. Narrowing his eyes at her in playful, exaggerated irritation, he reaches out to flick open the passenger door lock. He tries to summon up some real irritation at being startled so badly, but Allison just dimples at him as she peeks through the ajar door.

"Am I interrupting something? Do you want me to come back later?" her faux sincerity undermined by the faint twitch of her lips in repressed humor, dimples deepening further into her rosy cheeks.

How do you even dimple at someone? Is dimple a verb? Can dimples be weaponized? Maybe that's how Danny-

"Stiles?" Allison's questioning voice breaks through his pondering. He'd gotten lost in a thought wormhole for a second there.

"Sorry! Just – uhh- trying to stop time?" he ends on an uncertain question, as though not really sure if that's his answer.

"Riighhtt" Allison drawls, squinting at him in amused suspicion. The jeep door creaks loudly as she opens it wider, one hand planted against the rear panel for leverage. Cautiously, she turns side on and lifts a leg into the footwell of the passenger side, hand grasping the handle above the door. Stiles flounders for a moment. He's not used to seeing Allison as anything other than her graceful, gazelle-like self. "Do you need a hand?" he asks uncertainly.

"No, no. I got it. The seat's just higher than I expected," she assures Stiles, but the strained effort in her voice belies her words. It takes her a long moment to get seated and shut the door. Stiles notices her shaking hand gently prodding at her ribs as she takes measured breaths through the pain. He fiddles with his radio to try and give her a few seconds of composure, eyes darting anywhere but at her. He waits until he hears the seat belt buckle into place before turning the key in the ignition. The jeep rumbles to life beneath him as he pulls away from the curb. Stiles tries his hardest to avoid the slightly anxious and awkward atmosphere smothering him by focusing almost too intently on driving. He can feel Allison's stare burning a hole into the side of his skull, as he drives so carefully it's giving him flashbacks to his driver's test.

"Stiles. I'm not going to break if you have to brake."

"Whaaat?" he evades, voice reaching a cringe-inducing pitch, "I'm just being road safe. Safety first!"

"Stiles," Allison begins patiently, "I'm not made of glass. I got hurt, yes. But that was two weeks ago. I'm fine."

Stiles twists to face her, disbelievingly. "You got stabbed!" He waves a hand at her midsection, "Like, a lot. That's not something I would call fine!"

"Red," she says, pointing at the traffic lights in the vacant intersection ahead. Stiles swears under his breath as he hits the brakes a little too abruptly. A hiss escapes between Allison's gritted teeth as the seatbelt jerks across her injured ribs.

"See? Not fine. You got shish-kabobbed by a Japanese ghost wearing a Halloween mask and it's my fault. I don't even know how you can stand to see me right now!" Stiles blurts out, worry that he's hurt her roiling in his gut.

Allison carefully maneuvers herself as best she can in the confines of the seat to stare at him incredulously. "Okay...," she counts off on her fingers, "one, am too fine; two, I was not _shish-kabobbed—"_

"Mmm, no, it was a definite shish-kabobbing. An impaling at best…"

"Two," she repeats, louder than his rambling interruption, " _there was no shish anything_ ," she stresses. "It wasn't anybody's fault but the Oni and three, all I see is my friend. A friend I'm grateful is alive and well, even if he's being a complete weirdo over this."

Stiles sputters, "I'm not a _complete_ weirdo. I'm only like…65% weird on a good day." Allison squints at him, a disbelieving hum sounding in her throat matching the so-so gesture she makes with the hand not clasped to her side. Their amused huffs of breath die down as the jeep turns onto the road leading to the hospital.

"I've missed this," Allison says quietly, her forlorn sigh at odds with the amusement of a moment ago.

"Missed what? I mean, it's not like we used to hang out all that much without Scott there. I was just the permanent third wheel in your little Romeo and Juliet drama."

Allison fiddles anxiously with the zipper on her clutch bag as she struggles to corral her thoughts. "Not this exactly," she gestures between them, "but the…I dunno, normal, teenage conversation that isn't about the latest threat or newest supernatural whatever. Everyone's been treating me like I'm some poor broken porcelain doll and it's just so - rrrgh—" she lets out a frustrated growl. "You get it, don't you? The looks, the constant walking on eggshells? I just want everyone to just be normal. Well…as normal as werewolves, banshees, and kitsunes can be."

"Well as I am none of the above, I can be your fellow token human." He pauses for a moment, bewildered, "How is it that we're the only two humans? Are we the diversity cast?" he asks, disbelieving.

"Three now with Danny." She gives a derisive chuckle, "He had the right idea staying out of it. He should've laid low, now that Lydia's sniffed out his involvement you better believe she'll be using him for all he's worth. She said something about building an online bestiary?"

Stiles drums the wheel as he waits for a break in the traffic to turn into the hospital parking lot. He scoffs, "She told me there's gonna be a 'girl's night' she's forcing me to come along to. What do you even do at those things? These things were not made for nail polish!" Stiles says, waggling his lanky, bitten to the quick fingers at her.

"Talk about boys mostly," she winks cheekily at him. "Anything you want to share with the class?"

Stiles furrows his brows, puzzled. "Uh…no? I've been texting Derek? Does that count? Hold up, shouldn't I be asking you that question? I heard about…y'know. The confession thing?"

Allison's face falls instantly and Stiles immediately regrets his big mouth. Well, that's one way to kill the mood. Silence reigns in the jeep's cabin as they search for an open parking space.

"Famous last words, huh."

"To be fair, we all kinda thought they would be so you get a free pass on that one."

Stiles wrenches the wheel to snag a parking spot before the soccer mom van can. The driver gives him a filthy look when he smiles beatifically at their frustration. He crunches the jeep into gear. He should really get that fixed but he still vividly recalls what happened with the kanima last time he was at the mechanics and decides he can live with grinding gears. He chances a glance at Allison. Her gaze unerringly focused on her clenched hands in her lap. Nails perfectly painted as always, she's trying hard to maintain the illusion of poise but it looks to Stiles like she's slowly coming apart at the seams.

"Isaac won't talk about it. I've tried explaining – it wasn't like that. Scott…was my first love, y'know? I'll always have a place for him in my heart. I didn't say I was still _in_ love with him. Isaac's been a bit too defensive about it."

"I get it. I thought I loved Lydia for a long time. Too long. But I think that was just wishful thinking and idolization. I mean, who wouldn't idolize her? She's a strawberry blonde goddess. But we like each other far better as friends."

"She would have destroyed you," Allison sighs fondly, tilting to meet Stiles' eyes.

"Oh, absolutely. I don't doubt that for a second. Wait there for a sec," he unbuckles himself and makes his way to Allison's door, offering her a hand down from the jeep.

"Stiles, I didn't ask for help—"

"I know, I know. You're a big tough hunter who doesn't need to ask for help, even when you should," he stresses, eyes darting to her injured side. "That's why I'm offering instead. C'mon, Katniss."

Her defeated sigh clashes with the fond smile she gives him as Allison takes the helping hand. They make the trek to the main doors in companionable silence, Stiles slowing his pace subtly so Allison didn't overexert herself in her quest to keep up. He knows what that's like – pushing himself beyond what he should so he doesn't feel left behind by the wolves.

Their peaceful trek is shattered when the automatic glass door entrance way glides open.

Patients and visitors alike are scrambling to the wall furthest from the administration desk. The abrupt cacophony of loud sobs and panicked voices slams into them. A harried mother barges her way past Stiles, covering her young son's eyes with a hand. Stiles and Allison reel back, confusion and trepidation in their eyes. Stiles ventures forward first, a few cautious steps into the foyer. His gaze skitters about the lobby, looking for the source of the disturbance. It's a sad thought that he's so used to being in horrible situations that he's learned to tune out the panic of bystanders.

"Oh," Allison's soft, sad noise of realization draws his attention to the bottom of the welcome desk. A rapidly spreading puddle of dark ruby blood stains the linoleum leads to a limp body splayed on the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Her once sandy blonde hair now matted in gore. A pair of steel handled scissors protrude grotesquely from her temple. Her vacant eyes stare unseeing at the ceiling. She looks young. In her mid-twenties perhaps. The secretary behind the desk flinches back when the body's fingers twitch in death throes. A sudden thundering noise heralds the arrival of the hospital security, beefed up since the Nogitsune's visit, Stiles supposes, but just as incompetent as ever.

"She- she just leaned over and snatched them from the desk!" the secretary howls, gripping a guard's shirt tight in a white-knuckled grip. He leads her away from the commotion as a doctor takes the woman's pulse, searching for a sign of life. He gives a small shake of the head, the nearby guard stepping away, phone already held to his ear as he calls the Sheriff's department.

The sudden influx of staff begin shepherding the shocked onlookers away from the grisly sight.

"That girl weren't right in the head," mutters a hunched over pensioner to her friend. Their shiny foil 'get well soon' balloon bobbing alongside them in stark contrast to the mood of the room.

Stiles can't seem to drag his eyes away from the macabre sight, even as the small crowd bustles around him. The blood shines brightly in the fluorescent lighting, gleaming sickly from the scissor handles embedded to the hilt in her skull.

A tug at his hoody sleeve shakes him out of his stupor, he tears his eyes away to see Allison, her gaze riveted to the scene, pale and queasy looking.

"That's awful," she murmurs to him. "Who could do something like that?"

"Someone desperate."

Allison's hand darts to her mouth to cover the sharp intake of breath, "Oh my god, she's crying."

She's right. When he glances over he can just make out the soft trails of tears winding their way down her dead cheeks.

* * *

Allison finally steps back into the small patient waiting lounge looking more exhausted than ever.

"All done, finally," she sighs. "God, I want a shower. That ultrasound gel is so sticky even after you wipe it off," she says, pinching her shirt away from her skin in disgust.

Stiles gasps scandalized, "Ultrasound? You've been holding out on me! Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a liver," Allison deadpans.

"And is it all…good?" Stiles questions, waving an uncertain hand at Allison's midsection.

She sighs in relief, "Yes, thankfully. No leaking from the perforation or bile duct."

Stiles holds up a hand to stall her, "Woah, woah. I'm not good with blood and bodily fluids. Let's just uh, nope."

A wicked gleam sparks in Allison's eyes. "But you've missed out on so much these past two weeks, Stiles," she simpers. "Don't you want to stay updated?"

"Can't you just, like, email me the deets?" he deflects, as they make their way down the corridor to the parking lot.

"And have you miss out on all the imagery? No way!" she teases.

On the drive back, Stiles does his best to nod along to Allison's vivid descriptions of the shattered ribs, perforated liver, the close call with her bile duct, partial lung collapse and blood transfusions she's undergone since the near-death experience from the Oni's blade. He's pulling into Argent's driveway as she details the botched blood collection today to check her liver function and blood counts.

"…you can still see the squirt mark the blood left here," she enthuses, pointing at the faint brownish dots that extend from the taped-on cotton ball on her inner elbow.

Stiles all but leaps out of the driver's side door, his face a sickly pale shade. He's not sure how, but Allison's resulting giggle is both charming and maliciously gleeful all at the same time.

"You're cruel, you know that?" Stiles asks as he helps her down from the jeep.

She hums in amused agreement but as Stiles moves to pull his hand away from hers, she grips tighter and tugs him into a hug. Cautious of her wounds, he gingerly pats her shoulders, taken aback by the sudden affection. He didn't think they were close enough for this kind of overture of friendship without Scott as an intermediary. Maybe it's time for that to change, he thinks.

"Thank you. For letting me be me again."

"Uhh-"

"It's been so good to just, not think about it so much, y'know? I know I shouldn't joke about what happened…but…" she hesitates.

He feels a sudden stab of sympathy, "But they've been treating you like…"

"Like I actually died that night," she finishes. "I know they're just worried, but it feels like they're just waiting for me to drop dead."

"Like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop," he says solemnly.

"I think you've got a good idea of what that's like right now," she sighs and squeezes tighter.

"So…this hug has been going on for a while now…" he awkwardly points out.

She snorts inelegantly in his ear and releases her grip.

Together they make their way onto the porch. Allison unzips her clutch bag searching for house keys when the door opens inward suddenly to reveal Isaac, eyeing the both of them with suspicious curiosity.

"You guys are a bit late…what was all that about?" he asks, eyes darting between them and lingering on Stiles' stabilizing hand on Allison's elbow.

"Sorry, confidential Team Human business," Allison breezes as she glides past him through the open door. Well, glides as best as she can, Stiles supposes. He follows the sound of dinner plates clattering together to find the living room a hub of action. Lydia stands at the head of the coffee table, directing the organization of the Chinese takeout like an orchestra conductor. She shoos Scott away when he approaches with a fistful of forks muttering about amateurs needing anything but chopsticks. Stiles still spies him surreptitiously stashing a few at the far end of the table. He hangs back, reluctant to get involved. He knows intellectually that Scott had said they all missed his presence, but emotionally he's still unsure of his welcome. He doesn't think he could stand to see the briefest flicker of doubt in their eyes at the mere suggestion he's anything other than himself. Isaac and Danny bustle past him with armfuls of cushions to sit on the floor.

Danny winks at him as he passes by, claiming a corner of the couch for himself. Stiles isn't sure what to make of that. It's weird adjusting to his presence in pack business, but at least he won't have to watch his words so carefully now.

Kira unpacks the cartons, arranging them in a specific order only known to her as everyone grabs a plate and crowds around the small table.

"Wait, there won't be any of that green stuff right?" Scott asks worriedly.

"The wasabi?" Kira asks, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"That's Japanese, not Chinese. Honestly, he calls himself your boyfriend," Danny jests with an eye roll.

Isaac adds sardonically, "There are differences in the food, you know."

"Oh, yeah?" teases Lydia, "name one."

"Uhh…"

"No Scott, there's no wasabi," Kira assures Scott.

Scott lets out a relieved sigh, "Oh thank god! I mean- not that there's anything wrong with Japanese food! Or that Chinese food is better – I just-"

"Yeah, keep digging that hole deeper, buddy," Stiles drawls. Danny snorts in response as he's loading up his plate and a ping of surprised happiness zips through him. Maybe he can do this, he hopes.

Plates full with a variety of dishes they all find seats on cushions on the floor, or if they're one of the lucky few, on the soft leather couch.

Stiles is content to let the boisterous conversations of the pack carry on around him as he watches. He's missed seeing his friends so carefree and unfettered by the constraints of school work or the latest supernatural shenanigans. That is partially his fault, he muses, locking himself away like Rapunzel in a Doritos scented tower.

He vaguely hears Lydia enquiring into Allison's appointment as he twists noodles around his fork (thank you, Scotty). He's brought sharply back to reality when he catches his name—

"It was horrible, wasn't it, Stiles?"

He whips up to face Allison who's looking at him expectantly, noodles hanging from his lips. Hurriedly, he slurps them up, ignoring Lydia's revolted noise.

"Uhh…"

"Something about a girl at the hospital," Scott whispers out the corner of his mouth, disguising his help by taking a sip from his glass of water.

Stiles grimaces at the reminder. "Urgh, yeah. Scissors girl," he shudders.

Danny raises one well-groomed brow. "Scissors girl?"

"Yup, she uhh…grabbed a pair from the admin desk and uh-" he mimes stabbing himself in the temple with his fork.

Kira looks vaguely sickened at the notion. Lydia however, has a knowing expression, like the puzzle has started coming together.

Lydia turns to Allison, "That was before your appointment?" At Allison's nod she continues, "I thought something was off all day. I kept hearing…" she shakes her head dismissively. "It took me twenty minutes to get back with the Chinese food because I kept taking auto-pilot detours around town."

Isaac casts a worried gaze at the assembled pack. "Is – is that something we should be worried about then?"

Lydia purses her lips in consideration. "I'm not sure. I don't know enough about how this works. I mean, maybe it was just because this girl died in close proximity to these two that it was trying to warn me?" She points her chopsticks at Stiles and Allison. She shrugs, "It led me on a wild goose chase around town, that's all. No body, no problem."

"Wow…" Danny drags out. "If your stance is 'no body, no problem' I'm kind of glad I kept to myself this long," he shakes his head in disbelief.

"Hmm," Lydia hums in thought, "It's an occupational hazard of being a banshee. God knows I found enough bodies when Ms. Blake was around that it's just one of those things now."

"Yeah, but someone stabbing themselves in the head with a pair of scissors? There's something up with that, right? That's not normal, right?" Allison ventures.

"In this town?" Isaac snorts.

"Isaac's right," Scott speaks up, "It's sad, yeah, but suicides happen a lot. If she'd gone to the ER instead of the main entrance she probably wouldn't have been able to reach other the desk and grab them," he shrugs.

"Yeah, because the hospital has such strict security measures," Stiles drawls sarcastically.

Isaac flicks his eyes up to meet his, challenging. "After you? They do now."

Stiles doesn't miss the subtle elbow Allison jams into Isaac's ribs, nor the dangerous, flinty glare Lydia levels at him.

"Look, it's not our thing, so let's not worry about it anymore, ok?" Kira rushes in a futile attempt to dispel the tension.

Stiles maintains the defiant eye contact Isaac is making with him. Guess he blames him for Allison's injuries, even if she doesn't. "Yeah, but it's not the only thing happening lately, is it?" Stiles challenges.

Scott lets out a frustrated huff and slams his water glass down too heavily, sloshing water over the rim. "We've been over this, dude. There was nothing in the preserve!"

"Oh yeah? So what killed the deer? You were there, man. There's no way that was normal!" Stiles argues.

"But it was," Scott stresses, "Deaton did the autopsy – the fawn died of dehydration. Not poison, not some supernatural thing, but dehydration. Its mother had died, it had no milk!"

"What about the samples, huh? You're telling me that those dead animals just _happened_ to all die around that creek?"

"Yes!" Scott all but yells.

Kira reaches across a highly uncomfortable Danny to pull Scott's arm back. "Scott…that's enough, you need to take a break—"

"What about Daniel Ellis, huh? Drowned in his sink, dumped in a creek in the preserve too. That a 'fact of life', huh?" Stiles accuses.

"I don't even know who that is, but it's called murder, Stiles. It happens every day – ask your father. You know, the Sheriff? It's his job to sort those things out, not yours. Tell me, does he think there's something supernatural about it?"

"Well…no, but—"

"But nothing. You're so hung up on this! You so desperately want to help with some supernatural issue that you can't even see that _you're_ the issue!" Scott's chest heaves with the effort of his angry breathing, rising to tower over him. "Look, maybe it's for the best if you have a time out."

"I just came back—" Stiles pleads.

"And maybe it wasn't long enough for you to get your head screwed on straight," Isaac cuts in.

"You don't believe me? Fine," Stiles spits out. "I'll prove it. But until then? You can forget this." He pushes to a stand and tosses his empty plate none-too-gently onto the table, spilling Scott's water onto the pristine carpet.

He storms out, unheeding of the raised voices behind him, the girls of the pack rising to his defense. The door slams with a note of finality.

He's just turned the key in the jeep when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He withdraws it to read:

 **|Allison| 6:43pm |** _I believe you._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Summary: A question that sometimes drives me hazy, am I or are the others crazy? Stiles seeks answers and advice from someone who knows a little bit too much about letting the crazy run the show…

A/N: Just ignoring the highly convenient Hale vault under the school sign in Season 4. Because really? Also, there's a little bit of Scott hate in this chapter…I promise it's not forever, but canonically Scott has been a dick before (see: Donovan). He'll get over it eventually!

* * *

 _Allison's House_

Lydia can't stop hearing the _drip…drip…drip_. She shakes her head, trying to dispel the auditory hallucination. Her pen scratches the homework equations deeper into the page, knuckles white from her tight grip. Pen, not pencil because she doesn't make mistakes. Not with math. It's egotistical, true, but she's not wrong. She's noticed that keeping her brain busy helps to drown out what she's taken to calling Banshee Radio. Like a radio tuning through the stations, she's constantly picking up snippets of sound and white noise. She doesn't know enough about being a banshee to use it effectively yet. After all, it's not like she can practice unless someone is dead…or about to be. She just wishes she had an off switch for it instead of turning the volume down.

 _Drip_.

This drip is infuriatingly persistent though.

She refocuses on the math text in front of her. It's barely a challenge despite being a university level course, but she's hoping it's enough to distract her from the sense of unease swirling and eddying within her. She's been keeping herself occupied with helping Allison in her recovery now that her mom's-

 _Drip._

She pinches the bridge of her nose in impatience. Not today. She refuses to be the town cadaver dog. She snatches her pen up to rearrange some variables-

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

Only to slam the pen back down onto her notebook. She cuts a glance to the clock on Allison's desk, 9:54 pm.

 _Drip. Drip. Dripdripdrip._

Lydia sucks in a sharp breath and listens carefully.

 _Drip. Drip._

A faint sloshing sound of water falling from a height reaches her ear. The sound of water falling from the edge of a bathtub. The bathtub across the hall. Panic starts to rise in her chest. She hurries across the hall and slams the door open, eyes wide in her distress.

The sound wasn't in her head for once.

Rivulets of foamy, bubbly water trickle down the sides of the porcelain tub. There's a rapidly spreading puddle soaking into the edge of the plush bath mat. Allison's hand, nails painted a soft peach, is draped over the edge, water plinking in soft drips from her fingers onto the tile below. Allison's still reclined in the bath looking relaxed, oblivious to the still barely running faucet. Oblivious to Lydia's rushed entrance.

"Allison?" Lydia asks, hand still gripping the door knob tightly.

There's no response.

"Allison?" she tries again, voice wavering.

Not even a blink.

She marches over and waves a hand in Allison's face in an attempt to elicit a reaction. Any kind of reaction. But there's nothing but Allison's soft, unchanging breathing. Her eyes are staring ahead, unfocused as though in a trance.

Lydia reaches over and twists the faucet all the way shut, ceasing the dribbling flow. Plunging an arm into the tepid, frothy water she fumbles around for the plug. Giving it a firm yank she starts draining the water that has begun sloshing over the sides. Hurrying back to her friend's side, she gently taps her cheek.

"Allison? Allison. Wake up, Ally!"

Allison gives a slow, languid blink but there's still no recognition in her eyes.

Lydia starts to panic a little. How do you wake a sleep walker? Are you supposed to wake them up? She's in a bath, she can't just leave her here until she wakes up herself. She can't remember what Stiles said about sleepwalking…she can't alpha roar her out of it, but maybe…

Lydia sucks in a deep breath and tries to _pull_ from that place deep in her gut. The place that feels like it's magnetised to death, dragging her along its inexorable path.

 _"Allison!"_ she calls, this time with banshee force behind it, clawing Allison's buried consciousness to the fore. Allison gasps, blinking rapidly as she wakes.

"Lydia?" she mumbles, rubbing damp hands across her eyes. "What're you doing here? I was having a bath" she mutters fuzzily. She shoots to attention, "I was having a bath!" she gasps, eyes now alert. "Oh my god, the water's cold. How long was I asleep?" she whispers, mortified. She hurries to cross an arm over her chest as the water continues to drain.

Thumping footsteps hurry up the stairs behind Lydia, who hurries to thrust a towel into Allison's arms. Allison wraps herself in the towel just as Chris rushes round the corner into the doorway.

"I heard a yell, what happened?" he barks. When he notices Allison's wobbling attempts to step out of the half full tub, one arm clutching the towel shut he wheels around, face pink, to turn his back to them.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright, dad," Allison sighs tiredly. "I fell asleep in the bath and Lydia was trying to wake me."

"No," Lydia adds, "You were sleep walking…sleep bathing? I couldn't wake you up. I had to… _yell_ ," she stresses _._ "You looked awake but you were…empty."

"Again?" Chris asks, concerned.

Lydia balks and twists to face her friend, "What do you mean again? Allison?"

"And you had to…y'know?" he gestures awkwardly up and down at Lydia.

"Yes," she replies acerbically, "I had to 'y'know'," she air quotes.

Allison's gaze drops to her toes, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Shh!" Lydia hushes her, one arm around her shoulders, guiding her towards the door, "No, none of that. We've all got issues, this isn't a big one all things considered. I'll get you to bed and…"

"And I'll clean this up," Chris finishes, bath water pooling around his socks.

"I'm sorry," he hears Allison murmur to Lydia as they leave.

He barely hears Lydia's response of "Sleepwalking after trauma isn't so bad…could be worse, at least it's not hearing dead people…" before her bedroom door clicks shut.

Chris looks at the pool of water seeping across his floor, lost.

* * *

"You've reached the Beacon County Parks and Wildlife service. We're not able to take your call right now—"

Stiles hits the end call button with a little more force than necessary. He huffs and dials another number impatiently.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…" he paces as the dial tone rings in his ear.

"Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic, this is Dr. Deaton."

"Finally, someone answers! Deaton, it's me."

Stiles can almost hear the pursed lips behind Deaton's, "Mr. Stilinski, I presume?"

"Yeah. Yes. Hey, uh – is Scott there?"

"No, Scott isn't working until later this afternoon. May I ask why you're calling so early in the morning?"

"Look, um – I wanted to follow up on those water samples you had us take from the preserve. Y'know, just out of interest?" He really should have practiced this conversation in his head first.

Deaton sighs, "While I appreciate your…enthusiasm…I'm surprised Scott didn't tell you. The results were negligible."

"Negligible?" Stiles questions, "What do you mean by negligible? How is negligible a result?"

"You seem quite invested in this Stiles. Is there a reason you're so insistent there's something more to this than simple nature at work?" Deaton asks dubiously.

"I- I just wanna make sure, y'know? Don't want to repeat history by not double checking!" Stiles ekes out with false enthusiasm, worried that Deaton will be his usual reticent self and refuse to give out any useful information until their direst hour of need.

"No need to worry at all, Mr. Stilinski. The water results showed no evidence of chemicals- toxins or otherwise. Parks and Wildlife concur with the results."

"Okay, but what about that fawn you made us bring back? I mean, animal bodies found all around the area and ok, so it's not the water but it's gotta be something else, right?"

Deaton hums. Stiles isn't sure if that's a hum of agreement or doubt. God, why does the man have to be so mysterious all the damn time? He acts like a damn aloof street magician. Must be part and parcel of being a druid, he supposes. You get the 'cryptic advisor' skillset.

"The fawn died of dehydration, a shame to be sure," Deaton muses, though he doesn't sound all that cut up about it Stiles notes, "but expected nonetheless with its mother passed too. Fawns at that age rely on the doe's milk supply. No doe, no milk."

"Ok, but then what killed the doe? Do we need to go back and get another deer?" Stiles demands, then rushes to add, "Not me, obviously. I personally am volunteering someone else, like Isaac—"

"There's no need for that. Admirable as your dedication is," Deaton interrupts. "The park ranger brought me another body for analysis. The result is the same, acute dehydration."

"So, you're telling me that, what, ten or so animals just up and died of dehydration around this creek or whatever? And you don't think that's suspicious as hell? Who dies of dehydration next to water?" Stiles spits out incredulously.

"People lost at sea, I imagine," comes the slightly bemused reply. "Sometimes- strange as it may seem to you, Mr. Stilinski – sometimes things in the natural world happen for a reason. We may not quite know the reason yet, but there surely is one. You've heard of parasites that alter the behaviour of their host? Strange, yes, but perfectly natural."

"So, there's a parasite then?"

A note of irritation creeps into Deaton's normally zen countenance, "I was giving an example, not an explanation. Mr. Stilinski, I do know what I'm doing. I have been a professional, qualified vet for longer than you realize and a druid for longer than that. You would do well to remember that. If that's all…?"

Stung at Deaton's dismissal, Stiles bites out a bitter, "Thank you for your information," before tossing his phone on the bed in frustration.

He rakes his hands through his hair, wincing a little as his fingers catch the leftover gel knotting the strands together. His eyes catch the light reflecting off his phone screen. One more try can't hurt…

Snatching the phone from the bedspread he taps through his recent call list. He listens impatiently to the ringing in his ear, knee bouncing erratically as he idly spins his office chair around. He's on a third revolution on the chair when a disgruntled young woman answers. "Beacon County Parks and Wildlife. This is Katie, can I help you?"

Stiles does his best to channel Peter's suggestive confidence, "You certainly can, Katie!". He chances a glance at the internet browser he'd accessed earlier, page open to the _Beacon Chronicle_ staff list. "Matthew Wilby, from the _Beacon Chronicle_. I was hoping you could spare a moment to talk about the strange animal incidences in the Beacon Hills preserve?"

He can hear the cogs turning in her head as she hesitates, "Um, I'm not sure if I'm allowed… I can pass you on to my boss, Christine—"

"Oh, no need for that," he hurries, doing his best to turn on the charm. "I don't want you to bother her. I'm sure she's very busy. It'll only take a minute of your time Katie, I promise".

"Uh…"

"Thank you!" he rushes before she can think too carefully about it. "So, my boss is hounding me about getting the results of those water samples taken at the preserve taken three days ago. Can you confirm if there was anything unusual?"

"No…no they came back normal. I remember Mark saying the water wasn't totally clean though, because an animal must have died in the water upstream, but that was the only odd thing."

Stiles mulls over this, disappointed. It's not that he doesn't trust Deaton, but there's a niggling feeling in his gut telling him there's more to this.

"I've been wondering about that – all these poor animals dying…do you think it's a poacher? Or some sort of disease?"

"Oh," she starts to worry, "no, no, please don't write that in your article! I'd get in so much trouble—"

"It's ok, Katie," Stiles assures her, laying the charm on thick, "my article is about how hard you all work at the Parks and Wildlife offices. Being a ranger must be so interesting! I just value your opinion, Katie, I swear!" Stiles can almost hear her blush through the phone.

"Aww, you're so sweet!" she giggles. "Well, don't tell anyone I told you…but the vet? Dr. Deetley or whatever his name is? Did the autopsy with Mark, the head ranger here, and they said it was dehydration? That's weird, right? Like, how dumb do they have to be to die of dehydration next to water?"

"That's what I said!" Stiles exclaims incredulously.

"Wait. How did you know-"

"I mean…you're absolutely right, Katie. Don't you think that's a little bit…unusual though?"

There's a moment of quiet rustling. Her voice hushed and secretive as she whispers, "I think it's kinda creepy, but the rangers here all reckon it happens sometimes. That maybe a sick animal died upstream and it made them all sick like some deadly gastro. But…" Stiles can hear her voice waver with repressed tears, "there were so many of them yesterday. They just looked so small…" she sniffs.

Stiles should feel like a piece of shit for manipulating her like this…but if he's right there are lives on the line. Human lives. "It's alright, Katie. I'm sure you guys will work it out. You've been so helpful, thank you so much. Bye!" He hangs up after her mumbled goodbyes before she can get another word in edgewise.

It's barely 9am and he's already committed a misdemeanour by impersonating a journalist. It's ok though, everyone knows misdemeanours don't count if they're morally right.

Throwing his phone back onto the cluttered desk, he reclines back in his swivel chair, contemplative. He absentmindedly starts chewing his already gnawed on nails as he thinks. He just can't seem to shake the image of the dead girl's sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling. Of Daniel Ellis's bloated, blue lips. There's a heaviness in his gut that tells him he needs to look deeper. That there's an answer just beyond reach. That it's all connected somehow, even if he can't see it just yet.

His phone buzzes behind him. Slowly, he spins the chair to stare down the phone.

 _Please don't be Scott. Please don't be Scott._

He's not sure he can take any more of Scott's 'well-intentioned' vitriol after last night at Allison's. Scott sent a message at nearly midnight apologizing for losing his temper. Blaming the moon, like that's some excuse. But he'd noticed Scott never apologized for what he said, only how he said it. Stiles is pretty sure that Kira put him up to it. Scott's always been more of the 'let's move on like nothing ever happened' type.

He flips the phone, screen side up.

 **2 new messages  
Derek**

A strange sense of relief surges through him at the sight of Derek's name. He feels oddly buoyed as though someone has cut the string tying down a balloon inside his chest. He opens the messages app to see a photo of Malia, overly large smile painted across her face, hand held up in an awkward attempt at a wave.

 **Derek | 9:19 am |** _Malia says 'I'm staying here. I like it much better than Beacon Hills. So bye I guess. Here's a picture of me since you'll never see me again.'_

 **Stiles | 9:20 am |** _I'd like anywhere other than Beacon Hills too. Come back and get me. I could pretend to be a coyote._

The phone instantly vibrates in his hand, Derek's contact information and a sneakily snapped photo of his resting bitch face on the display. Stiles fumbles with the buzzing phone in his surprise, heart thrumming in his chest.

"Hello?"

"What did you mean? What's happened?" Derek says urgently.

"Well hello to you too, Sourwolf. How are you? How's the road trip?" Stiles snarks with sugary sweetness.

Derek lets out a beleaguered sigh into the receiver. "Yes, hello Stiles," he snaps back impatiently, but Stiles can detect a hint of fondness laced in the acerbic tone.

"I'm here too by the way. Not that you two seem to have noticed in this little phone foreplay you've had going on recently." Peter chimes in, amused.

"Am I on speakerphone?" Stiles questions.

"Every call with a werewolf is like being on speakerphone. We can't switch our hearing off I'm afraid," Peter drawls.

"So no privacy at all huh," he muses. "Hey, how's that work with—No, nevermind. Don't want to know."

Stiles can hear the smirk when Peter responds, "I'm sure Derek would—"

"Stop deflecting. What's happened, Stiles?" Derek interrupts.

Stiles contemplates lying for a few moments, but he's already texted Derek about the elk and the possibility of hunters.

"How close are you to getting back to Beacon Hills?" he asks instead.

"A week, maybe less? We're just getting into Seattle now. Stiles, what's going on? Were there hunters?" Derek asks, concerned.

"I don't think it's hunters, no," he deflects.

Peter corrects, "We should be a week, but it all depends on the Montgomery Pack. It's been nearly 10 years since I last saw them. We have no idea if they're going to make us jump through the hoops of formality or just make me suffer through a family dinner and be on our way."

"What exactly are you getting in Seattle? Derek said you had to collect something but didn't say what." Stiles asks.

"The Montgomery Pack were family friends, I guess you could say. The Alpha was one of Talia's friends. Apparently, Talia trusted them enough that she gave them some artifacts to keep safe in case…well. Talia had no faith in human banks, didn't trust they couldn't be infiltrated by hunters."

Stiles shrugs, "Fair point though. I don't think there's much Gerard wouldn't do."

"Talia's thoughts exactly…We're meeting with their Alpha to collect a very comprehensive bestiary, some rare plants Deaton doesn't have in his meagre collection and some old emissary books Deaton never got his paws on."

"Not judging…but uh – kinda sounds like you won't be sharing with the Doc."

Peter scoffs, "Hardly. He may have been her emissary, but he stayed out of an infatuation with her. He never lifted a finger to help me in the years I was trapped in a coma. Once my sister died, so did his sense of duty."

Derek adds, "I didn't even know he was my mother's emissary. Laura mentioned he was some sort of advisor but for all his promises to my mother he seems to help Scott above all others."

"Yeah, I'm getting the sense that he only intervenes at the last minute," Stiles scoffs bitterly. "Him and Scott, the gurus of leaving things until it's too late."

"Hmm, so all isn't well in dear old Beacon Hills? You're going to have to elaborate on that little tidbit if you want advice. I'm assuming that's what you want? You've always been more forthcoming with cutting to the chase and seeking out answers than the others. It's admirable, truly, rather like myself actually but—"

"Peter…" Derek growls, annoyed. "Explain, Stiles," Derek prompts.

"It's probably nothing. Scott thinks it's leftover paranoia from the Nogitsune…"

"Well you know what they say, it isn't paranoia if they really are out to get you..." Peter murmurs.

"Not helping, Peter," Derek mutters angrily.

"Scott's username was Allison. His password was also Allison. Forgive me if I don't hold Scott's logic in high esteem," Peter deflects.

Stiles presses on, "So…I've been thinking—"

"A dangerous pursuit to be sure…" Peter teases.

"That there's a new threat in town," Stiles continues, tactfully ignoring Peter's interruption.

"What do you mean 'new threat'? What kind of threat? Why hasn't Scott said anything?" Derek asks, confused.

"Well…that's the hard part…"

"Let me guess," Peter sighs, "You've been doing your intrepid detective routine and haven't told Scott about what you've found yet? Or maybe you _have_ told our True Alpha and he's sticking his head in the sand. What's his special talent you said? Leaving things until it's too late?"

"Okay, wow. Also, rude! Scott's my best bro, dude," Stiles defends. "Even if he does have his head up his ass sometimes," he adds, annoyed.

"Stiles, if you want my help I need more information than that," Derek presses, concern clear in his voice. It almost sounded like he was willing to turn the car around this second if Stiles asked it of him. Stiles can't help the warm feeling that grows in his chest at the thought of Derek being so concerned for him.

"Our help, I think you mean." Derek must have given Peter his patented 'raised brows of disbelief' face as he hears Peter mutter pretentiously, "What? I can be helpful when I want to be."

"When you can get something out of it you mean…"

Peter hums in amusement. "Have fun figuring out what that is, nephew." Stiles rolls his eyes in exasperation. They're more like annoying siblings than uncle and nephew, he swears.

"Okay, what makes you think there's a threat? Who or what is it threatening?" Derek asks

"…I don't know."

"You don't know?" Derek asks sardonically.

"I don't know _yet_ ," Stiles corrects. "It's…hard to explain." He racks his brain, trying to piece together an explanation for the feeling of unease that swirls within him. "It's like…you know the feeling when someone's watching you but you can't see them? When the hairs on your arms go up? Kinda like spidey-sense? And there's this…weight, I suppose. Like there's a literal, physical target on my back sometimes. I know you probably don't believe me. But it's like someone tripped the silent alarm in my head. And it's not just me either – there was that thing with the deer – elk – whatever? The animal bodies the rangers found by one of the creeks? Dad's working a case right now that doesn't add up. Like the way mountain lions never added up. And it's probably not related, but this woman just up and committed suicide at the hospital today. With scissors. I mean, not judging how she wants to go out – but everything in my gut is telling me that something is wrong. Scott and Dad keep telling me I'm just paranoid after everything. That I'm just seeing things that aren't there but _I know something isn't right_ , Derek!"

He's almost out of breath after that diatribe. But there's also a sense of relief to finally have those niggling thoughts out into the open. There's nothing coming through the phone but the quiet static of the connection.

Finally, Derek breaks the silence. "Trust your gut. Stop waiting for validation from Scott. For someone with enhanced senses he needs to work at trusting his instincts."

Peter muses, "You know, this sort of thing would happen to Talia and our father before her. The clash between intuition and evidence. It's a fine line to cross, wagering on a gut instinct. But, _if_ there was something and it's escalated from animal to human prey – well, it's better to be wrong than responsible. Or at least that's what Talia and my dear old parents said. Personally, I never cared if something was digesting the townsfolk if it didn't directly involve me. But with the Argents in town…well, best we avoid more hunters showing up looking to put their bullets in anything that moves. Namely, me."

Inspiration sparks at what Peter said about being wrong. If he snoops around and is wrong, well…what are the consequences? But if he puts it out of his mind like the pack wants…he can't help but remember the glistening red pool under the blonde woman's head at the hospital.

"That's what an emissary is supposed to help with, Stiles," Derek adds. "An emissary provides counsel. Balance between the pack's human and wolf sides and between the pack and the territory. They help decide whether the pack is…overreaching, I guess you could say. Whether an issue is in their jurisdiction to deal with and how best to help."

"Yeah, but Scott doesn't agree with me. He told me to back off. That I need a time out from this…from them," Stiles finishes sadly.

"Read between the lines, Stiles," Peter teases condescendingly.

Derek continues patiently, "Listen carefully, Stiles. Their job is to take action to protect the pack, and - if they have to - to protect people from the pack. They fight in ways the wolf can't. They arm themselves with knowledge. With magic – No, not that kind of magic," Derek interrupts when he hears Stiles open his mouth to protest, presumably with some Harry Potter reference. "You've seen the kind I'm talking about – mountain ash, rituals, the Darach. An emissary is supposed to guide the alpha when they need it like…" he fumbles for a comparison Stiles will relate to, "like a consultant for your Dad or…like Gandalf, but-"

Stiles gasps melodramatically, "Did you just make a nerdy reference? You've just become ten times more attractive and I didn't think that was even possible. I'm sensing some hidden depths here, Sourwolf." Stiles' eyes widen as he hears Peters faint snigger and processes what he just blurted out. Oh, God, why did he let his mouth run away from him? _Deflect, deflect…_ "…But, yeah, I can see the Gandalf vibe Deaton's trying to work. He's a bit _too_ hands off with the important stuff sometimes-"

" _But_ ," Peter stresses over Stiles' interruption, "sometimes they have to work for the greater good of the pack using their best judgement. Sometimes their best judgement doesn't match the alpha's." He scoffs, "The alpha and emissary are supposed to be able to negotiate like reasoned adults…you see your dilemma, here. As blandly moral as Scott may be, he is infuriatingly stubborn, sometimes to his benefit but sometimes to his detriment."

"I tried to appeal to Scott. And to Deaton but they—"

Derek cuts him off, "Stop relying on Deaton. Deaton was my mother's emissary. He's acting as Scott's emissary and as helpful as he can be, he's only doing part of the job. But I never said he was _my_ emissary. Beacon Hills is Hale territory. You be the emissary and protect your pack."

Stiles panics, confused, "I can't just be the emissary! I don't know what I'm doing!"

"Better start learning then," Derek says, and Stiles is sure his face is doing that stupid stubble covered smirky thing.

"But—"

"Get on with your intrepid detective schtick," Peter brushes his concerns aside. "Get your puzzle pieces together – and if they start to connect and you're positive there's something more to this hunch of yours, call us and keep us updated."

"Get your proof but don't be stupid about it, ok?" Derek sounds gruff, but Stiles can hear the underlying note of concern in his voice before he hears the abrupt click and staticky silence of the call being disconnected.

How do they manage to have dramatic exits even on the phone?

If Derek's being serious and Stiles has emissary potential one of the first lessons he wants (besides how to save his own ass) is how to make dramatic entrances and exits. It's almost like they've practiced, honestly.

He grabs a loose pen from the desk and absentmindedly taps it against his lips, eyeing his room with consideration. Is he willing to stake his reputation on this gut feeling? On one hand, if he tries to solve this puzzle only to find it's just a series of loosely related coincidences, he'll look like an idiot. His dad and Scott will have been right in their assumption that his instincts kicking up a fuss is just his own paranoid brain processing the Nogitsune debacle. And how long will they think that? Are they going to doubt his every decision now? Question every suggestion he makes?

But if he does nothing…

He could do nothing. He could totally do nothing. Just sit back and ignore the problem until it goes away…

But he's always had a damn good sense of intuition.

And his intuition is ringing alarm bells in the back of his mind.

Fuck it, Stiles decides.

Tossing the pen aside he leaps out of his chair, full of determination. He pauses at his bedroom doorway, listening intently to make sure his father is at work. Nothing.

"Dad?" he floats down the hall. He gets nothing but silence in return. Excellent.

He creeps down the hall to his father's bedroom. He carefully twists the door knob, wincing when it squeaks and grinds loudly. He hesitates, listening carefully.

Wait.

The house is empty. Why the hell is he still trying to be sneaky?

Suppressing an eyeroll at himself, he swings the door open and makes his way to the safe in the closet. There's a post-it on the front of the gun safe that reads in his dad's blocky capitals, 'Go Away Stiles!'. He smirks, as if that was going to deter him. He plugs in the combination. The lock opens with a dull thud. He gives a small victory fist pump and swings the door open. Inside lies his dad's spare handgun, important documents, his mom's wedding band, and a non-descript plain folder. He's snooped into his dad's safe often enough to know that the inconspicuous folder is the most conspicuous thing in the damn safe. He carefully slips the folder out from where his dad had 'cleverly' hidden it under the folder of birth certificates.

Flip open the cover and bingo! A folder full of illicit case files.

Snapping it shut with a spring in his step, he resets the safe (post-it and all) and makes his way back to his bedroom. He wheels over the perspex bulletin board his dad brought him from the station when they upgraded the interior after the station was...slightly incinerated in an explosion. Not his fault, he reminds himself. But his gain, he thinks as he admires the as of yet untouched surface, full of potential. He powers on his printer/photocopier with one hand, the other hand already pulling out crime scene reports. Stiles takes meticulous care to copy and print each page and note in the file and replace them in the same order. There's no point being careless when he's _technically_ committing a felony. Plausible deniability and all.

He skims through the documents. Okay, the sink drowning. Check.

He pauses. Looks more closely at the page in his hand. Double checks he's reading it correctly.  
It's the results of the water samples he and Scott collected for Deaton. He hurriedly flicks through a few pages of tabled results and data and –

The report Deaton and a Ranger Mark Visham co-signed. It's the post-mortem for the animals found by the creek. And the notes from animal control about the bear and the dead elk. His eyes widen in shock. What is his dad doing with these reports unless he suspected a supernatural cause too? Unless he was willing to give Stiles the benefit of the doubt?

He's just missing one thing though – the report about the suicide yesterday afternoon.

He casts a cursory glance over his shoulder to check he's alone. He knows that's stupid but old habits die hard, he supposes. He deftly navigates his way into the Police Database using his dad's login.

You'd think as a sheriff he'd have harder to guess passwords but in this case he's grateful he took the time to peek at the keyboard last time he dropped lunch in for his dad.

He clicks through to search all Beacon County databases. He pauses as he scans the blank entry fields. With a shrug, he enters 22 December in the date and 'suicide' in the keyword bar.

There's a long anxious moment before his page loads with several document options. Some of them aren't useful at all but then he spies it. A report from J. Parrish.

As quickly as he can he prints the deputy's notes from the scene, grimacing at the photos of the victim. There hasn't been a post-mortem yet, he notes. He avoids looking at the photos of blood splattered scissors embedded in her temple. Probably don't need to do much of an autopsy when the cause of death is so blatantly obvious.

Stiles fumbles through his desk drawers for pens and highlighters and begins marking up the details. Highlighting any key facts, writing questions in the margins, cutting out snippets of information. It takes him only half an hour to condense the information and pin it up on his…crime board? Wall of weird? Murder board? Crime board, he decides. Uncapping a chalk marker he annotates his thoughts.  
 _Undetectable poison in water?  
Rabies – elk, scissors woman? Rabies not detected by D?  
Sink water in lungs – how did he get to Oak Creek? [accomplice? Suicide link to scissors?]  
Diff. footprints? Steelcap boots? V shape in sole?  
COD dehydration? Virus?_

He stands back and takes in what he has so far. It's niggling at him. An incessant tugging in the back of his mind that reminds him that he's forgetting something. There's something missing. He feels in his gut that they're connected, but he can't bring himself to tack his string up between the cases yet. There's a connection, a link, that he's overlooking.

He needs a break to gain some fresh perspective or he'll stare at the board all day and won't make any progress. Checking to ensure the pages are all ordered neatly in the pilfered non-descript folder he slips back into his father's room to return it to the safe. He's patting himself on the back for a job well done when he sees his dad standing in the middle of his bedroom perusing his crime board.

"Uhh…" he bleats in his panic and surprise. "Dad! What a…nice surprise! Hey, aren't you meant to be getting back to work?"

His father meets his eyes through the clear plastic of the board. "Hmm, yes you'd think so. But there I was, reading reports from my officers when all of a sudden I get a notification on my screen. Do you know what that notification said, Stiles?"

"Uhh…no. No, I do not?" he winces.

"The database so very helpfully informed me that my account was being logged into on another computer. Imagine my surprise to find that someone, somewhere, has used my credentials to access confidential law enforcement files."

"Wow. That…is a surprise. I will…take note of that for next time?" he cringes, eyes shifting away.

"Out of interest, just how were you planning on hiding this?" he gestures at the large noticeboard covered in photos, text and chalk scribblings. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Stiles coughs awkwardly, "I was uh – gonna cover it with a sheet?"

"A sheet?" his dad asks incredulously.

"Well, yeah," Stiles begins indignantly, "I mean – you really wanna touch a mysterious bedsheet in a teenage boy's bedroom?"

The sheriff winces as though in pain, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes in exasperation. "Stiles, sometimes you astound me."

Stiles perks up at that – "That wasn't really meant a compliment, son,"- and slumps dejectedly again.

"So…am I in trouble? Stiles ventures cautiously.

"Stiles, of course I knew you'd go looking. I hoped you wouldn't…but I've been your father for nearly 18 years now. I'd like to think I know you pretty well, kid."

Stiles gapes, "But-!"

"Plausible deniability, son," he says kindly.

Stiles blurts, "Dad, I need to do this. You get that don't you?"

His dad takes a few steps to the bed and sits heavily on the edge, still gazing at the board. He pats the bed next to him, gesturing for Stiles to join him.

As Stiles sits he continues, "Yeah. I get it. I threw myself into work after your Mom…and I don't want that for you." He glances at Stiles, concern writ in his features. "This," he gestures at the board, "won't make the trauma you're dealing with any better. It will just distract you from it for a while. But it was wrong of me to assume that your suggestions that night were coming from that place in your mind."

"It's not, I swear—" Stiles stammers, but his Dad holds up a hand to forestall his protests.

"I know. Look…I pulled the files, same as you. I can't piece together this Ellis case. His father's alibi checks out and the crime scene shows he wasn't there. But short of some sort of alien abduction I can't for the life of me work out how he got to the creek when all the info tells us he drowned at home. I didn't tell you yesterday – but we got security cam footage from a gas station on one of the paths to Oak Creek. Ellis walked past – no sign of a struggle but something wasn't right in that boy's face. I'd guess sleepwalking if I had to wager…but the lab results don't lie," he shrugs.

Stiles looks at him in askance, unsure. At his dad's nod, he snatches his chalk marker up and adds, ' _Footage – Ellis walked alone. Traces of sink liq. in lungs?'  
_ As he caps the marker he sees pride and sadness battle themselves out in his father's eyes. Pride that Stiles is following in his footsteps and sadness that his son is irrevocably involved in solving murders before he even graduates high school.

The radio crackles to life on his dad's shoulder. "Son," his dad begins and he rises from the bed to head back to work. He claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, "I didn't believe you last time and I nearly lost you. I won't make that mistake again."

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Stiles chokes out, "Thanks, Dad."

"Well," his dad adds in an attempt at levity, "best case scenario: you're wrong and look like a bit of an idiot for a while," he shrugs. "You're going to need a fair bit more physical proof that that if you want to convince the others," he adds, eyeing the crime board. With one last clap on the shoulder, he descends the stairs calling out a, "Remember, plausible deniability!" over his shoulder as he heads back to the cruiser parked in the drive.

Physical proof, Stiles muses after his dad leaves. I need physical proof.

I know exactly where to get that.

Next stop, the morgue.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Summary:**_ The Sheriff should have known better than to suggest Stiles' needed physical proof...  
Stiles gets one step closer to solving his mystery with the help of an unexpected ally.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this update! Real life is incredibly kicking my ass at the moment!

Let me know in the comments if you'd like the chapters to be date stamped to follow the chronological progression. As I was writing this chapter I realised it may be confusing to those who don't have the detailed outline to refer to haha

Thanks as always to my beta Jaycel!

 **Chapter 6**

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon" Stiles mutters as he jiggles the lockpick in the door. He glances over his shoulder again, but there's no movement in the dimly lit darkness of the service entrance to the morgue. He twists his wrist ever so gently, feeling carefully for the tumblers. With a sudden grating of metal the lock turns and Stiles hurries to twist the door handle open. He quickly stuffs the picks back into his hoodie pocket with a grateful, "Thank you, eBay".

He pauses, listens closely and slowly opens the door a crack, peeking in. There's nothing. With a relieved breath, he quickly skirts into the entrance, silently closing the door behind him. Silently, that is, until he jostles an empty metal bowl. The echoing clang nearly deafening he snatches the bowl up to quieten it. Heart racing his eyes skitter to the doors leading to the main hospital. He waits for a shadowy figure to appear in the frosted glass panels but it seems he's in luck. A quick glance at the clock above the doors shows that it's just after 1:30 in the morning. He'll be paying for this tomorrow but he couldn't risk the medical examiner or his father catching him. Not that it seems like the medical examiner is ever here despite what has to be a ridiculous influx of bodies through the place.

Stiles makes his way to the wall of steel drawers. Thankfully the room has enough ambient light coming in from the street light courtesy of the half wall of glass bricks that he doesn't need to use his phone torch. He scans the labels on the drawers, searching for someone that suits the age of scissors girl. He really needs to stop calling her that, he thinks grimly. His eyes catch on the label of drawer 6.

Gotcha.

He grabs the metal handle, surprised a little at the chilly temperature. He knew logically that the lockers were refrigerated, but it's a little off-putting to be confronted with the reality that he's standing in what essentially amounts to a fridge full of bodies. Summoning his courage (and eyeing the location of the nearest bin in the likely event that he hurls) he pulls the door open. He can't help but screw his face up in trepidation as though he's expecting something to leap out and attack him. Hands shaking with nerves he reaches out to the gurney and ever so slowly slides it out of the darkness of the locker. Swallowing heavily in apprehension he reaches for the starkly white sheet covering the peaks and valleys of the body. It feels like a swarm of bees has taken up residence in his stomach. The sheet's fabric is oddly soft, Stiles notes as he grasps it in his fingertips. He gently folds the sheet down, taking care to only uncover to her collarbones. _Oh,_ he thinks. She looks so much smaller in death. So much younger too than he expected.

"Who are you?" he whispers to himself. He scopes the room, looking for – ah! There it is. Clipboards organized on the wall. Taking care to avoid his sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor he carefully picks his way past the examination table and metal trays lining benches. He refuses to take his eyes off the uncovered body though – fuck that noise, he's not letting it leave his peripheral vision. He hasn't survived this long to be taken out in a horror movie trope. He unhooks the clipboard bearing a number 6 and silently treads back to the drawer, relieved to note that she hasn't so much as moved. He still eyes her chest for any signs of breathing though.

"Okay," he mumbles to himself, flipping the chart open. "You are…," he skims the files, "Ashley Cook! Sorry Ashley," he says apologetically. "Gotta do what I gotta do – you get me?"

He scans the file. Ashley Cook, age 22… cause of death: suicide (impaling with an object, causing mortal wounding). Nothing new there. He tries not to glance at the sickeningly dark, gaping slit in her temple but it's like his eyes are magnetically drawn to it. The wound itself has been cleaned up since yesterday morning but he can still glimpse fragments of white bone. This isn't helping his theory though. He skips some recordings of weights, measurements and wound depths he deems irrelevant until he comes across the most recent notes. It's a strange juxtaposition between the clinical notes surrounding her death and the beautiful cursive script.

 _Pt. shows evidence of increased intercranial pressure and significant hydrocephalus. Pt. inflicted injury appears to be attempt at relieving intercranial pressure. Ocular pressure outside normal range (no evidence of glaucoma from past medical history). Both eardrum membranes burst and sinus passages show signs of inflammation. Pathology testing of cerebral spinal fluid/blood to check for anomalies (concerns: bacterial/viral meningitis, rabies)._

 _Unusual fluid volume – MRI scan requested to be undertaken 22_ _rd_ _Dec before further investigations to determine if structural causes prevented draining._

He flips to the next page and skims the MRI results. _No structural abnormalities found. Spinal fluid vessels abnormally enlarged due to retained fluid post-mortem. Recommend pathology testing._

He's not quite sure if this helps or hinders his investigation. The animals in the preserve died of dehydration. This… this seems like the opposite. Maybe he is going to all this effort over a rabies epidemic… He blanches and takes a large step back from the body. Shit, is that still contagious after death? Stiles gently picks up the sheet to cover Ashley again, mumbling another apology under his breath when he notices that her hair is damp from blood tinged fluid escaping her ear. He feels a sharp pang of sympathy for her. It's no wonder she felt driven to take such drastic action to relieve the pressure. He opens his camera app on his phone and snaps a few pictures of the reports to add to his crime board.

Stiles wheels her gurney back into the drawer and shuts it behind him, mindful of the noise. He returns the number 6 folder to its place on the wall. He's about to make his hasty exit… but the sight of the other folders hanging on their respective hooks has him curious.

Tossing another wary glance at the doors he unhooks folder 1 and skims for the cause of death. _Myocardial Infarction due to coronary artery disease– chronic smoker, high cholesterol…_ Nope, irrelevant. He re-hooks that one.

He snatches up folder 2 as silently as he can. _Blunt force trauma – significant head injuries consistent with a vehicular collision._

Folder 3 lists the cause of death as _cardiac arrest due to pulmonary edema_. Ok, unhelpful.

Folder 4 is blank. Folder 5 lists the notes of a 64 year old woman who died of a stroke. There are some fairly revolting autopsy in progress photos in amongst the notes. Gross. Folder 7 contains Daniel Ellis' notes. _Acute noncardiogenic pulmonary edema…_ blah blah blah _"samples from lungs consistent with household sink water from pt. house. Evidence of…"_ he skims the list of chemicals found in Ellis' dishwashing liquid. Wait.

Holy shit.

Scrabbling, he grabs folder 3 again. A Mr Chris Coleman, age 23. Stiles fumbles his phone out of his pocket, eyes darting between the two reports. He quickly googles _'what is pulmonary edema'_ but his phone is taking forever to load the results. After an anxious wait, his screen is overloaded with results. He scrolls past the few results about radiography to click on the Mayo Clinic site. " _…excess fluid in lungs"_ Ok, he can work with that. He scrolls down, skimming the list of causes. Mmm, maybe pneumonia? Toxins? He flicks through a few pages in the report but Coleman's tox screen is negative. Viruses are listed (God he hopes it's not supernatural rabies). Damn, there are a lot of potential causes but his eyes catch on one in particular, _"near drowning"._

Stiles hesitates, unsure if this is the connection he's looking for but it's like the words are leaping off the screen at him. He stares intently at the screen, trying hard to summon his instincts. What was it that Deaton said? Be the spark? It's all about force of will? He's sure he looks like an idiot, listening attentively to the hook in his chest, the flutters in his gut. That deep, visceral certainty of instinct and intuition tugging him in the right direction like a will-o'-the-wisp.

Suddenly his phone lets out an obnoxious bleat and buzzes in his hand. Startled, it slips from his fingers heading to an almost certain demise on the tiles below. Miraculously, Stiles manages to fumble and catch it, Lydia's name flashing across the screen. The ringing echoes deafeningly in the darkened room before he manages to swipe a finger and answer it. How could he forget to put it on silent? Crouching behind the steel bench top so he's out of sight he whisper-yells, "Who the hell calls someone at quarter to two in the morning, Lydia?"

"The kind of someone who knows you're not even close to going to bed yet," Lydia replies smartly.

"You don't know that. I could have been sleeping!"

"And still managed to answer after the first ring? Please, it's school vacation, like you haven't been up watching youtube videos or whatever for hours anyway," she dismisses.

"I'm in the middle of something, can I call you back?" he whispers.

"Why are you whispering? What are you up to?" Lydia asks speculatively.

"Hang on – I'm putting you on hold for a sec."

"Don't you dare put me on hol—"

Hurriedly, Stiles takes a few pictures of Chris Coleman's file. There's nothing new in Daniel Ellis', but he is leaving with some sort of lead at least. He hooks them back into their respective places and heads for the service door exit he came in through. He's about to push through the door when he hears murmured voices and the rasp of a lighter trying to spark. Aww, crap. You'd think working at a hospital the night shift nurses would know better than to smoke. Especially outside the morgue pick-up zone. Irony is a bitch. Alright, main doors it is. Cautiously he pulls the door open and peeks down the hall. He breaths a sign of relief when the hall is empty and there's no sign of life. Heh, no signs of life at the morgue sounds about right.

Once he rounds a corner, he presses his phone back to his ear so he looks purposeful. People tend to ignore you if you walk with purpose and are seemingly busy. He hurriedly pounds the elevator button, keeping his hood up to avoid security cameras.

"Heyyy, Lydia."

"Stiles. What exactly was so important you had to put me on hold?" she interrogates.

"Maybe you interrupted a little 'Stiles Alone Time', ever think of that?" he deflects.

"Tell me, do you always have 'alone time' in public elevators?" Lydia asks shrewdly.

Stiles balks. "I…have no idea what you're talking about," he denies just as the elevator reaches the ground floor with a soft ding.

"So soft jazz elevator background music just really gets you going, does it? Tell me, do you 'ding' when you _arrive_ too?"

Stiles splutters for a moment before Lydia continues, ignoring his wordless protests. "I will find out what you're up to, Stiles. You might as well just tell me, I'll get it out of you one way or another," she sing-songs.

Stiles sighs in defeat as the elevator doors close behind him. Sometimes Lydia could be remarkably tenacious about people withholding information from her. Unsurprising, considering the clusterfuck that was lizard boy and Lydia's turn as a horcrux for Peter.

"I'm snooping, alright? I'm not sure it's anything yet. I'll let you know if it pans out."

"Does Scott know you're doing this?" Lydia asks speculatively.

"What Scotty doesn't know won't hurt him. Hell, I had to tell him he was a werewolf, you'd think he'd trust my deductive reasoning skills," he snarks.

"Mmm, I'll think about it," she hums into his ear as he ducks into the corridor leading to the ER. He hadn't planned on having to try and sneak out through the main hospital and at this time of night… morning… whatever – the only door that isn't locked is the ER entrance.

"What? What do you mean, 'I'll think about it?' Lydia?!"

"What are you doing tonight? And by tonight I mean 8pm."

"Uhh—"

"You're coming to Allison's—"

"I am?"

"Yes. We're going to have one of those Bob Ross parties. Ordinarily it'd be a wine and paint party but since Allison's liver can't tolerate any alcohol at the moment…"

Stiles cringes a little. "Not sure if you haven't noticed, but art isn't really my thing. Remember when Mrs. Sanchez kicked me out of class in middle school?"

"Yes," Lydia replies patiently, "but that was because you attempted to sculpt a realistic penis instead of a bowl. Honestly, it looked like you'd never seen one before…"

"See? My point exactly—"

"You're coming Stiles," she says with a note of finality. "Look," she continues softly, "Allison's having a hard time with all this and Mr. Argent is being a little overprotective right now. Do you know that the first time she was allowed to leave the house was when she went to that appointment with you? She hides it well but hiding the struggles just makes them harder to fix. We should have been more on top of this when you all started having issues after the sacrifice. But we all looked the other way and let it fester. I can't stand by and watch Allison drown in this, Stiles." Lydia pleads.

"Yeah, well I'm not feeling very supported either right now. It's not like anyone really tried to stop Scott—"

"We _did!"_ Lydia protests only to be cut off by Stiles.

"Yeah – after I left." The silence that follows this proclamation is uncomfortably drawn out until he finally takes pity on Lydia breaks it. "Look, don't worry about it. Derek's got my back on this."

Stiles' eyes widen as they catch upon Melissa McCall striding purposefully in his direction. He hurriedly mutters, "Oh, shit. Gotta go!" before unceremoniously hanging up and stuffing the phone in his pocket. Stiles points in the direction of the exit, attempting to casually retreat.

"Uhh, I was just leav—"

Melissa hooks a hand into his elbow, whirling him about without a pause in her determined pace. She frog-marches him down a corridor and herds him into an empty consult room.

"What – what are you—" Stiles manages before Melissa cuts him off in a hushed, frustrated voice.

"What's going on? Scott said there's nothing but your dad called asking me to keep an eye out about any unusual patients and lo and behold there's been a bunch of weird crap here lately."

"Yeah, I saw," Stiles winces.

A flicker of confusion crosses Melissa's face swiftly followed by exasperation. "You just came from the morgue didn't you," she deadpans.

"Uhm… I plead the fifth?"

"Good. Then I have something to show you."

"Wait. What?" Stiles blurts in surprise as she wraps a firm hand around his elbow and pushes him through a set of doors. She shushes him and under her breath mutters, "Pretend you broke your arm. And for god's sakes take that hood off you look like a sketchy drug dealer."

"What? Why?" he asks, tugging his hoodie off his head and ruffling his hair.

In retaliation, Melissa squeezes his bicep fiercely, fingers digging in painfully. He lets out a sharp yelp as Melissa hushes him with a contrived, "It's alright, we're nearly at Radiology," just as they pass by an open doorway. The brightly lit room beyond throws glowing light onto the linoleum of the dim, empty hall. This section of the hospital must not see much action during the graveyard shift, Stiles muses. Peering intently out of the doorway from his office chair, however, is a portly, small-eyed man in an unkempt guard's uniform.

The security guard, Mike, a quick glance of his name tag reveals, squints at them in confused suspicion. His watery, rat like eyes lingering on Melissa uncomfortably.

"What're _you_ doing down here at this time of night? Come to visit me, eh?". God, his voice feels slimy. Melissa subtly nudges him, fingers gripping his arm tightly. Stiles represses a shudder and directs his gaze at the floor with a faked hiss of pain.

"Hey, Mike. Just taking this one to radiology- oh," she snaps her fingers as though struck by an idea, "that reminds me, it was Annalise's birthday today – if you're quick you might be able to snatch one of the last few pieces of cake before shift changeover."

The guard's beady eyes swivel to the clock above the desk. Only a few scant minutes until the 2 am shift change for the doctors and nursing staff. Stiles isn't quite sure where Melissa is going with this, but from the bone creaking grip she has on his arm, he's betting this Mike creep needs to take the bait. He's not faking the wince and the hissed breaths between clenched teeth now.

"I think she's finishing at two, you might be able to wish her a happy birthday in person. I'm sure she'd really appreciate your well wishes…" she trails off suggestively. Gross.

"S'pose I could go patrol…" he mutters to himself as he casts an assessing glance at the few grainy cctv camera screens and the small tv playing a repeat of a football match.

Stiles lets out a pained groan- partly because of the finger shaped bruises likely to be littering his arm and partly because of the cringeworthy suggestive tone Melissa is laying on thick. Mrs. McCall takes that as her cue and shuffles him down the hall, calling out, "say happy birthday to Annalise for me!" over her shoulder as she goes.

The second they push through the swinging doors leading down a hall to the left he opens his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but Melissa claps a hand over his mouth and ducks them to the side of the door. Peering through the glass panel, she holds a finger to her lips, warning him to stay quiet. Under their quiet breaths, he hears the plodding footsteps of the guard approaching the door. They listen intently as he trudges past their set of doors and turns down a corridor to the right. Melissa pushes the door open an inch or two and listens for his fading footsteps.

"Let's go."

Hurriedly, she leads him back down the hall they came from, rushing him into the security guard's office and closing the door behind them with a soft click.

"What the hell what that all about, Mrs. McCall?"

She's already navigating the computer files and gestures for him to take an office chair. It's still warm from where Mike had been sitting. There's something innately wrong about an already warmed seat.

"Your dad asked me to keep an eye out remember? I thought I might see one of you guys poking your nose in around here." She shakes her head in disappointment, "When will you lot remember that you can actually ask the adults for help instead of fumbling your way through everything?"

"Wait, what?" he asks, focusing on the first part. He's consciously ignoring the latter because asking Deaton and his Dad ended so well the first time…

Melissa's voice cuts into his thoughts, "You guys are looking into this, right? I mean, this is one of your weird supernatural things, isn't it?"

"Uh- I mean, yeah, sure. We – _I_ – think so at least. Sorry, I didn't even think to ask you. I don't want you to get in trouble or lose your job over helping us out with something like this."

"Honey, what makes you think it's any different for us? You're not immune to consequences just because you're trying to do the right thing. Your dad, me and Chris Argent have been talking ever since that psycho teacher of yours kidnapped us, you know? We don't appreciate being left out of the loop."

"Well, no worries of that. This is the loop. The loop is me," he gestures awkwardly at all of himself with a sardonic smile.

"Scott isn't helping you with this?" she asks, confused.

"Scott… had his mind on other things at the moment," Stiles deflects. "So, what are we doing here?"

"Same thing as you, snooping—"

"Investigating!" Stiles protests, but wisely stays silent as Melissa's wry look.

"I thought something was off about the way that girl died in the lobby—"

"You mean scissors girl?"

Melissa looks appalled, "You've been calling her- no, never mind. I heard from Richard, that's the M.E. by the way, that the circumstances of her suicide were a little unusual. I asked a few questions and—", she clicks open a file on the computer which opens into a washed-out video. She drags the play back indicator along, fast forwarding through a rush of people in and out of the lobby until the time stamp is only a few minutes before Stiles and Allison arrived. "There – the surveillance video of her death," she adds with a morbid flourish at the monitor.

"Your newfound willingness to aid and abet me is really conflicting right now. Why are you showing me this, Mrs. McCall? You could get into—"

She waves off his concerns, "Because when you see the tape I think you'll agree with me. This reeks of something else. Maybe something similar to what you went through," she adds gently, watching him carefully.

"What I…? You think it's back?" His breath comes faster now, heart racing in his chest at the thought. It escaped once, it could get out again. He covertly tries to count his fingers, tapping them again his jean clad legs.

"Stiles," Melissa interrupts his panic induced fog, hands covering his own. "Listen to me, no I don't think it's the Nogitsune. But I do think something did this to this girl and you and the pack are the only ones who can help, okay?"

The panic coursing through his veins becomes a dull roar, calming from the disorienting maelstrom it was before. He takes a few shuddering breaths and tries to rein in the tremors shaking his hands. Distraction…he needs a distraction to focus on instead. Eyes scanning the room he concentrates on the small monitors playing the cctv recordings. Okay, okay… he can see… the emergency room viewed from behind the triage desk… the main entrance lobby doors… the emergency room exterior entrance… the lobby waiting room… the emerg—wait.

"Um, Melissa? Why are all the screens just showing different views of the E.R and front desk? Shouldn't there be… I dunno, more?"

Melissa lets out an unexpectedly dark chuckle, "You'd think so after all the times things have attacked here, but no. Budget cuts. There're about six active cameras in the entire hospital and they're all in those two rooms. The rest are just there for show. Pretty convenient for people who might be thinking about breaking and entering through service entrances, huh?" she asks sardonically, eyebrow raised judgmentally.

"You're judging me? You're the one who just smuggled us into here to watch this," he says incredulously as he gestures at the still paused screen.

She gestures at his pocket, "Yeah, well, get out your phone to record this, I can't download a copy. We've wasted too much time already." Once his phone camera is squarely aimed at the screen, he nods at Mrs. McCall to hit play.

The washed out, slightly pixelated lobby looks eerie in the playback. In the top corner of the screen he sees the automatic doors glide open as a slightly haggard looking figure stumbles in. That's her, Ashley Cook. One hand is gripping the side of her head, hair twisted and tangled around her fingers as she yanks it viciously to the side. Someone waiting in the lobby takes a step closer as though to help her, but she lashes out, nearly doubling over as she cringes away. Stiles can see her lips moving, but there's no audio to match. Ashley Cook scrabbles what look like blood tinged fingertips onto the lobby desk. This time, facing the camera he can clearly see her lips form the plea, "Help me!" Stiles isn't the best at lipreading, but it looks like she's repeating the phrase with increasing desperation as she ruthlessly scratches and tears at her scalp and ears. The receptionist reaches for the phone, presumably to call security but drops the handset in shock when Ashley claps both hands over her ears and lets out what is clearly a tortured scream even on the silent video.

"This bit coming up is what alarms me," Melissa's somber voice intrudes, both of their eyes fixated on the macabre spectacle.

The words Stiles has been carefully trying to lip read have changed. He frowns in concentration. He can make out what looks like the words, "I'm sorry", which doesn't seem to make sense.

Melissa's soft voice, however, provides some clarity. "Lisa, the receptionist here?" she points at the woman desperately speaking into the phone, huddled as far away from Ashley's raving as possible, "Said she was screaming 'I'm sorry. Please stop. I'll do anything if you stop.'" Now that he knows that, it's obvious she's pleading with someone, _something_ to stop. But stop what he's not entirely sure.

Together, they watch in silence as she slams her hands onto the desk top, gripping the edge as her knees buckle from the obvious pain she's in. Her head whips from side to side even as she fights to steady herself. She's started screaming again even as her limbs shudder and jerk uncontrollably like she's wrestling for control. The sight unnervingly reminds him of Erica struggling against her own body during her partial seizure in the library. It's unsettlingly obvious how much anguish Ashley is in from the pressure build up the doctor diagnosed her with post-mortem. There's a moment of abrupt stillness as she slumps over the desk, breath heaving in her chest and spittle cascading over her chin before she lunges over the desk, snatching at the scissors lying abandoned on the desk. Without a second's pause to hesitate, she slams the scissors into her temple unrelenting force. Stiles can almost hear the sickening crunch of bone through the silent video. Surprisingly, she's still upright for a breath catching moment, eyelids fluttering like a trapped moth before she drops to the ground unmoving. It's an odd juxtaposition, Stiles muses, Ashley's body lying so still and at peace for the first time since her frenzied arrival compared to the suddenly frantic visitors in the waiting room, all shoving each other aside to be the furthest from the gory scene. Stiles watches the dark puddle growing beneath her head like a grim halo.

"Alright, that's all of it," Melissa murmurs as she pauses the video. In the top corner of the screen he can just make out his own entrance with Allison. Melissa hurriedly shuts the computer files she's opened, taking care to leave everything in the small office exactly as they found it. She takes his arm once again, taking up the role of escort to his injured patient as she deftly navigates them through the corridors until they find themselves at the automatic doors of the E.R waiting room. She side-eyes the room, checking to ensure they can't be heard before muttering, "That video doesn't go further than this and the pack, got it?" Stiles nods solemnly, still too overwhelmed with the previous few minutes to formulate some clever reply.

"Good. Oh, and Stiles?"

He meets her eyes, uncertain.

"Be careful. I don't know what this is. If it even is anything. But until we know for sure, watch out, ok?"

"But, Scott-"

"Scott will come around, he always does." She pats his shoulder gently, tugging him into a light hug. "It's late, go home and get some sleep, Stiles. And don't forget to update your dad!" she calls out as the automatic doors close behind her, leaving him alone in the yellow lamplight of the car park.

Releasing a tension filled breath, he makes his way to his Jeep, fingers anxiously gripping his phone in his hoodie pocket. The strong scent of petrichor and wet asphalt assaults his senses, it must have rained a little while he was in there. He grimaces at the feel of damp socks as his converse sinks into a slightly deeper than anticipated puddle as he navigates his way back to the little side street he'd parked Roscoe in. The phone ensconced in his clammy grip buzzes in his pocket. Looking around furtively to make sure he's not being followed, he pulls to check his notifications. He knows it's a bad habit, these new paranoid tendencies he's developed. Some sort of hypervigilance where he constantly feels eyes tracking his every move. He's not sure how much of that is borne of this new threat or how much is in his head. Fuck, he doesn't even know if this so-called threat is in his head and his dad is just humoring him. His phone buzzes insistently again urging him to read his messages.

 **Lydia | 2:16 am |** I'm going to assume you had a very good reason for hanging up on me.  
 **Lydia | 2:17 am |** 8pm. Allison's. Be there.

God, he doesn't want to deal with the pack. Sure, he knows Scott likely won't be there since Lydia said it was girl's night. But he's not sure he wants to see any of them after the clusterfuck that was last time. The malicious voice of crippling self-doubt and anxiety whispers in his ear. _They want you there so they can keep an eye on you. You turned on them once. It's been less than a month since the Nogitsune left… they're just waiting for a relapse._ He shakes his head, increasing his pace as though he can outrun the thought. How long has it been since he slept last? Actually slept that is, not just lying there pretending to sleep in the hopes that if he tries hard enough it would happen.

It's late. He needs sleep. He can't let his anxiety control him like this. He takes a few carefully controlled breaths, trying to push the negativity out of his mind. His friends trust him. They know the Nogitsune is gone. Lydia and the others want him to be there. He's doing the right thing. He repeats this mantra over and over in his head, stepping over a burbling storm water drain to get to the driver's side door. Careful not to drop his keys with his fumbling fingers he lets out a sigh of relief once he slams the door shut behind him. It's quieter in his head now, slumped in the cracked leather seats of his car, breath escaping in misty clouds. The familiarity of his car grounding him. He shuts his eyes for a second to try and compose himself. For some stupid reason, he thought that once the Nogitsune was gone all his problems would be over. That he'd bounce back and be the same old Stiles right away. No lingering after effects, no anxiety. Just a hit of the reset button and the whole saga would be a distant memory. He should have known better. The late night talks with Derek about Boyd and Jennifer prove that. Derek hides it well, but those events have left their scars on him just as Stiles is struggling now.

The 'Derek issue' as he's been quietly referring to it in his head, is a whole other matter entirely. It's been five days now since he first texted Derek back and he's already in over his head. He thought he'd buried this inconvenient crush a while ago but it's back stronger than ever. It doesn't help that through their conversations recently Derek's revealed more of his sense of humor. A warmth and friendliness that he could never spare when they were dealing with the latest supernatural shitstorm. He seems more at ease now that the mantle of Alpha is off his shoulders. That the burden of responsibility has shifted to Scott.

 _Though not all the responsibility_ , he thinks, heat rising in his chest as he recalls Derek making him the Hale emissary. Telling him to protect the pack in his stead. He can't seem to force the silly grin from his face, cheeks burning at the trust Derek showed in him.

Time to make sure his investment wasn't in vain.

Tapping out a message on his phone he sends it to Derek, heedless of the time.

 **Stiles | 2:21 am |** I think I found something. Not 100% sure what the connection is yet though. Maybe like 70% sure.

He tosses his phone into the passenger side seat, cranking the ignition and blasting the heater. He's wiping his windows of the droplets of rain, preparing to pull out of the kerb when he hears a faint hum from the softly glowing phone screen.

 **Derek | 2:22 am |** I'll see you in 5 days. 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The glowing numbers on his alarm clock are judging him. He knows it. He's cutting it pretty fine if he wants to make it to Allison's on time. Or rather Lydia will be cutting him finely if he dares to be late. Stiles diverts his gaze back to his drawers, rummaging through his extensive t-shirt collection to find anything that could be suitable to wear tonight. Head tilted awkwardly to press the phone against his ear with his shoulder, he emerges with a triumphant cry, clutching a soft, faded red shirt in his grip. "Girl's night", he mutters derisively into his phone, "is just a glorified name for a slumber party". Derek, who until this point had been uncharacteristically waiting patiently on the other end of the call for Stiles to ramble his way through his latest crisis, lets out a stifled sigh.

"I'm sure it will be fine, Stiles."

"Oh, no, no. This is far from fine. This is walking into a trap. This in an interrogation in disguise!" Stiles raves, flailing wildly as he attempts to shove his arms into the sleeves whilst still holding the phone to his ear.

Derek's smirk is nearly audible. Stiles isn't sure if Derek's seemingly telepathic facial expressions are some sort of acquired magic wolfy power or just a Derek specific thing, but he knows deep down to his soul that Derek is enjoying Stiles' moment of indignant suffering.

"Don't you like Lydia though? I thought you'd be jumping at any opportunity to spend time with her," Derek questions, the faintest undercurrent to his tone that Stiles can't understand puzzle out in his anxiety ridden state.

He's thought seriously about his relationship with Lydia for a long time now. Since he saw the ferocity of the desperation and love in Lydia's eyes that night with the kanima and the key. 'Relationship' was never the right word for what he shared with Lydia. Hell, he didn't share anything with Lydia other than classes and Allison's presence in their respective social circles. He'd been selfish, he'd realized with a harshness that still stung months later. He's pushed his own ideals and thoughts onto an image of Lydia. He thought that because he knew she was hiding her intelligence that he knew her more intimately than anyone else. Thankfully he's changed since then. They've both matured since then. He let go of the childish crush he held for her since the third grade. Lydia shed the false mask of superiority and stopped being so consumed with her self-centered image.

He huffs a breath at Derek, oddly embarrassed to air his flaws to him, "That ship sailed a long time ago. Admiration is not the same thing as attraction. It just took a while to learn that we're far better off as friends."

"What are you so worried about then?" Derek asks, confused.

"Because…" he hesitates, unsure if he wants to take this leap of faith with Derek. He's pretty sure Derek already knows; they've been slowly but surely stepping from allies to friends to something _more_. But Stiles isn't certain that he's not just reading too much into things. That he's not mistaking friendly teasing for flirtatious banter.

"Because…?" Derek's soft voice prompts in his ear.

Stiles takes a fortifying breath and plows onward, "Because it's less that the ship has sailed with her and more that I've realized it's 'hello sailor' lately." He cringes, waiting for Derek to pull away from this conversation. To analyze every interaction they've had for hidden subtext like people always seem to do when they come out.

Derek's "Oh," is a strange mixture of unexpected revelation and warmth. "Does she know that? Does Scott?"

Stiles hesitates before admitting, "You're the first person I've _told_ told. I mean, I haven't hidden it and God knows I've made enough jokes about checking guys out, but they all seemed to brush it off as me just joking around? I'm pretty sure this is just an opportunity for Lydia to drag answers out of me about it though."

"So, what? This is like..." Derek huffs an aggrieved breath into the receiver, faint disgust coloring his tone, "a gay best friend test?"

Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes, "More like a bi bestie, but yes. She's going to grill me about this. There's no way she accepts that I'm over putting her on a pedestal without details."

Derek hums playfully (and isn't that an _interesting_ sound, the little voice in the back of Stiles' head notes), "Mmm, don't really think you've stopped that, honestly."

"It's healthy admiration!" Stiles defends, "and fear. Admiration and fear."

"So how much trouble are you going to be in with her now that you're late to her carefully planned girl's night?"

Stiles whips his head around to face his alarm clock. Fuck. He hurriedly yanks the jeans he'd been lazily stepping into, phone held tight between ear and shoulder as he fumbles with the fly. "Fuckfuckfuck…" he mutters, shoving his feet into the closest socks he could find. He's pretty sure they don't match and they're definitely not clean, but they'll have to do.

Derek's rumbling chuckle breaks him out of his blind panic. "Call me back tomorrow to discuss your theory. We've got another meeting with the Alpha tonight."

"And then you'll be heading back?" Stiles puffs out, taking the stairs two at a time, patting down his pockets to check for his wallet and keys.

"On the 27th I think. Peter still has to sort through the books." He hums in amusement, "You'd better go, you were supposed to be there five minutes ago."

"I'm going, I'm going, I'm going!" Stiles mutters under his breath as he locks the front door behind him, scurrying to the jeep, backpack in hand. He rushes out a muffled 'bye!' as he hangs up, tossing the phone with a little too much force into the passenger seat. A very rushed fifteen minutes later finds Stiles on Allison's doorstep, finger hovering uncertainly over the doorbell. Before he can summon up the courage to ring however, the door swings open, a bemused Danny eyeing him skeptically.

"Are you planning on coming in at some point tonight or…?"

Stiles blinks uncomprehendingly. "Uhh… you're not a girl. Isn't this girl's night?"

"Wow," Danny drawls with a smirk, "I had no idea I wasn't a girl." He sweeps an arm to gesture Stiles over the threshold as Lydia pokes her head around the entranceway to the living room, calling out, "Danny is an honorary girl for tonight – he's got a lot of catching up to do."

Stiles shifts uneasily, how much did Danny know about what the Nogitsune did? It's not his fault Aiden died in the fight with the Oni, but there's still a residual feeling of blame simmering in his gut.

"Don't worry, there won't be any hair braiding tonight," Danny adds with a wink at seeing Stiles' fraught expression. Lydia watches him with a shrewd, assessing gaze. He swallows heavily as he crosses into the living room, knowing she's catalogued his unexpected response to Danny and bets his ass she's going to follow that up the next opportunity she gets.

Isaac's voice interrupts his line of thought, "I'm not an honorary girl, by the way. But I can braid like you wouldn't believe. Not that you'll ever know since I wasn't invited to this little shindig," he tosses over his shoulder as he brushes past Stiles in sweatpants and an oversized shirt. At his look of confusion, Allison, who is propped up on pillows pats the open space next to her on the sofa for him to sit and adds, "he's headed upstairs to watch the game with Dad."

Danny, bless his soul, asks the very question he's been thinking, "He looks pretty comfortable here. Doesn't he live with Scott? I thought that was a whole thing?"

"Ah…" Allison turns a fetching shade of pink. "Isaac and I were… when the whole, y'know happened," she gestures to her side, "he wanted to stick close and learn a few tricks of the trade from Dad so he's been in the spare room for the last few weeks."

"And he's not going to wonder why I was invited to girl's night when he kinda lives here?" Stiles asks, puzzled.

Lydia smirks as she adds paint to several plastic plate palettes, "Oh honey, no. Honestly, for someone so smart you need to get a clue." Stiles gapes unattractively as Kira, who'd been quietly hooking up a laptop to the TV giggles. He swivels to face Danny, "Was it that obvious? I hadn't even said anything!"

"Stiles," Danny begins patiently, "remember that time I said I'd take your virginity in the locker room – which Lydia explained, by the way, virgin sacrifices? That's weird, even for Beacon Hills. You said it was 'sweet' of me to offer and then got annoyed when I was only joking. That's not even counting how many times you've asked me if you're attractive to gay guys. You don't ask unless it's your goal, dude."

Kira chimes in, "We already kinda knew, we were just waiting for you to say something about it," she shrugs.

"I-I… I haven't even told Scott yet. I've only actually told one person and that was Derek on the phone earlier-"

"You told Derek, but you haven't told Scott?" Lydia leans forward in her seat, eyes laser focused like a cat sensing an opportunity to pounce.

"Yeah, why _was_ he in your bedroom that time? You didn't honestly think I thought he was your cousin, right?" Danny teases.

"You know what, I am ready to be hit with some Bob Ross wisdom, how about you guys?" Stiles deflects, snatching up a brush from the cup on the table.

From beside him Allison throws him a wink and adds pointedly, "Sounds good to me. Kira, are we all set?"

He tries to telepathically send his thanks to Allison for the save with his eyes, hoping he doesn't look mildly constipated instead. Stiles is definitely appreciating this newfound comradery with Allison. Guess it takes trauma to bring people together, he thinks morbidly.

Lydia's eyes dart between Allison and Stiles, narrowing at the conspiring looks they're exchanging and finally, levels a squinty eyed stare at him, "Hmm, alright. But don't think we're not talking about this later."

He can't resist the subtle fist pump the second she swivels away on her heeled boots. Honestly, who wears heeled boots in winter to a sleepover?

"So, I'm gonna ask… why the Bob Ross?" Danny asks, skeptically considering the blobs of color on his palette.

Allison sighs, arm still protectively guarding her midsection as she shuffles into a more upright position on her armchair. "My dad is still being overprotective about me leaving the house at the moment. I've been going crazy stuck in here all the time. I mean, it's been great and all with everyone visiting… but all they want to talk about is how I'm feeling and wrapping me up in cotton wool and I appreciate it, I do… but I just want some semblance of normal life back."

There's a sad sort of sympathy in Lydia's eyes. Stiles figures she'd understand wanting everything to go back to normal after she first awoke her banshee powers. A three-day naked hike in the woods will do that to you, he supposes.

Allison continues a tad bitterly, "Normally I'd practice my archery but since that's out of the question at the moment…," she takes a fortifying breath and puts visible effort into brightening up, "well, I've tried my hand at a few hobbies before so figured, why not try this?"

"What kind of hobbies?" Kira asks curiously.

"Urgh, I failed miserably at poetry. I can make a pretty mean friendship bracelet though," she smiles, eyes crinkling adorably. "On the plus side," she adds, "It's Christmas in two days, if these turn out to be any good, it's a great last-minute gift!"

"Speak for yourself," Stiles mutters, overwhelmed by the different brush choices before him. Though she has a point, not much time for Christmas shopping when you're a) being possessed by a psychotic fox demon or b) hiding in your house like a recluse after being possessed by said fox demon. Sucking in a fortifying breath to try and shake off the lingering feelings of guilt and despair, he squares up to his canvas, determined focus writ on his features and snatches up a brush. "Alright, let's do this," he bites out. "Loser has to wash all the brushes?"

Kira's eyes spark in unexpected competitiveness, "You're going down, Stilinski."

Lydia huffs in amusement, "You're all forgetting I'm in the art class, it shouldn't be too hard for me to win this," she smiles wickedly.

"We'll see," Allison smirks, "we'll find something you're not good at yet, Lyds."

"Not today you won't," Lydia says airily, daintily dipping her brush in the water as the dulcet tones of Bob Ross wash over them.

What follows is a somehow relaxed, yet intently focused hour of painting interspersed with Stiles cries of "What the actual fuck is Alizarin Crimson? Can't he just say red? It sounds like a goddamn Pokémon!"

"Sounds like a D&D wizard's name to me actually," Danny adds placidly, calmly flicking distant pine trees under his mountain. Stiles gasps, hand flying to his chest in mock astonishment, "A Dungeons and Dragons reference, Danny? It's fate, we're meant to be," Stiles flutters his eyelashes dramatically, pretending to swoon into the arm of the sofa.

"Please," Danny scoffs coolly, laser focused on his canvas, "I would have destroyed you." Lydia hums her agreement absently.

Allison mournfully cries, "My mountains just look like depressed volcanos. How does he do that?"

"Some sort of magic, I'm sure of it," Stiles adds, wide eyed as he darts his gaze between the demonstration on the screen and his own mediocre attempts.

Everything is going miraculously well. There's a sun-soaked warmth spreading through his limbs, cheeks stinging from constantly smiling. He's missed this easy friendship. The lighthearted banter and friendly competition that doesn't involve being tackled by wolf powered lacrosse teammates. He doesn't realize something is amiss until he's working on one of the final steps, a dark tree trunk extending across the foreground of the painting. He's so busy concentrating on not making the tree lopsided or too out of proportion that he misses Kira's soft calling of Lydia's name. It isn't until Danny abruptly stands to look over Lydia's shoulder that he realizes that Lydia stare is a touch too vacant. Her unseeing, unblinking eyes stare blankly at the canvas, her perfectly manicured fingers smudging across her canvas, still unerringly finding the rich dark paint on her palette without glancing.

"This… this is her thing, isn't it? Her banshee thing?" Danny asks uncertainly.

"I think so?" Kira replies, uneasily watching Lydia smear the dark paint in strange patterns across her otherwise pristine landscape painting.

Danny hovers a hand uncertainly above Lydia's shoulder, "Do we like, wake her up or something? Or is this like a seizure and we wait it out?"

"We're not entirely sure," Allison admits, chewing her lip nervously. "We weren't sure what she was until a few months ago. We haven't had time to learn what she can do yet. Gerard didn't have much on Banshees in his bestiary…"

After a tense, silent minute, punctuated only by Isaac's soft footfalls down the stairs as he joins them to watch with sharp eyes from the doorway, awareness snaps back into Lydia's features with a sudden blink. She takes a moment to orient herself, lashes fluttering wildly as she takes in the mess on her hands and her friends hovering around her anxiously.

Isaac breaks the silence gesturing to her now ruined artwork, "Well, what is it? Who's dying?"

"I don't know," Lydia snaps tiredly.

"Well shouldn't you? Isn't that your one job?" he asks harshly.

Behind her, Allison tilts her head side to side, considering the dark vine-like trails that was once her tree. "It kinda still looks like a tree… is it the nemeton's roots again?"

"No, it's not the nemeton this time," Lydia replies with certainty. At Lydia's tone, Allison locks eyes with Stiles meaningfully as though she's trying to communicate telepathically with him.

"Oh, so you can't tell us what it is, but you somehow know it's not the nemeton?" Isaac asks skeptically from where he lounges against the doorframe. Allison shoots him a vicious looking glare and Stiles is glad he's not in Isaac's shoes right now.

Stiles has an idea, but he's hesitant to suggest it. However, Lydia's eyes have started welling with frustrated tears. He can see her struggling with the foreboding, violating feeling of invasion - knowing your body does things without your permission or knowledge. A feeling he knows all too well. Reluctantly, he suggests, "We could – uh – I could ask Peter for more information?" At Lydia's betrayed look, he adds, "Look, he knew about the ritual to bring himself back to life. Surely he knows something about your banshee-ness?"

"I don't want anything from him," she spits. "I wouldn't be like this if it wasn't for him."

"I know you don't want to hear it, and I'm not advocating that you forgive him – not at all, but he was out of his mind with grief and revenge when he bit you. He was willing to do whatever it took to avenge his family's deaths. I mean… what wouldn't one of us do? He's better now, I guess. I mean, he's always going to look out for himself, sure, but he's not actively evil, right? You can't forgive him for when he was out of his mind, but you can forgive me for what I've done?"

"That's a low blow even for you, Stilinski. You know it's different."

"Are you sure it was the bite that caused it?" Kira asks quietly. When all eyes turn their attention on her, she shrinks back a little, unsure, "It just seems a little… strange? For a werewolf bite to turn you into a banshee. Maybe it's more like me? I was always a kitsune through my heritage… my genetics, but I didn't know until Barrow kidnapped me. Maybe it's the same for you – a traumatic event triggered your powers?"

There's a moment of thoughtful contemplation before Allison adds slowly, "You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe we could look into it a little more?"

"You really should, you know," says Danny, "I know I'm new to all this," he gestures to all of them, "but if it were me? I'd want to know everything about it."

Stiles can feel his curiosity bubbling under the surface now. "Have you been feeling… off, lately?"

"I- I'm not sure? The day you and Ally went to the hospital I drove around aimlessly for a while. The day that girl…" she trails off. "And yesterday morning when Allison fell asleep in the bath-"

"Does yelling at me to wake up count though?" Allison asks.

"Ally, I only knew something was wrong because I could hear this… this dripping noise in my head and I _knew_ something wasn't right."

"Wait," Stiles interrupts, "Are you saying you've had two banshee episodes in the last two days? Well, three now if we count this," he waves a hand at her ruined canvas. "Do you think this has something to do with the other stuff in town? With the weird animal deaths and-"

"Look," Isaac cuts in, "I think Scott was right, you're thinking too hard about this. There's nothing new in town, ok? No scents, no new creatures, nothing – we checked, alright? This could all just be stress, y'know. PTSD from what we just went through, so I don't know why you're trying so hard to push us all into the next problem you've created."

"Isaac!" Allison chastises.

"What, so Lydia can have gut feelings, but I can't? She just told you she's had banshee stuff," he wiggles his fingers away from his head like psychic waves.

"Because she's a banshee who foretells future deaths and has supernatural abilities and you're… not. People die every day, she's probably just picking up on that," Isaac snipes.

"Oh yeah? Well, who was right about Matt being sketchy? Or Jackson being the kanima?" Stiles barks.

Isaac's lip curls up into a snarl, "Yeah, but you also thought Derek killed his sister and got him arrested for it."

"We found her body buried in his yard ok, we all make mistakes!" Stiles exclaims. "Besides, it WAS a Hale who killed her!"

"Yeah, you're really convincing me to ask him for help," Lydia mutters.

"Oh, would you look at that! Even with Lydia's… additions, my painting is still the worst, so I guess I'm on brush washing duty!" Allison interrupts with forced cheer, glaring at Stiles when he opens his mouth to interrupt. "Isaac, help me out?" she asks, well, demands really but Allison's Disney princess powers disguise the unrelenting steel in her voice. Whatever her tactic to break up the tension, it works. At the strained noise that escapes her when she pushes to a stand, Isaac rushes to the table to collect as many brushes as he can to prevent her from overexerting herself.

"Lyds.." Stiles sighs.

"I'll think about it," she says, resignedly.

"C'mon, let's pack this stuff up," Kira prompts them, carefully laying her canvas on a side table to dry. It's fairly decent actually. Especially compared to his attempts. He and Lydia pack up the paints, the latter taking the used palettes from his hand and brushing past him to the kitchen with a sympathetic look. Kira gives him a comforting pat on the arm as she passes him. Together they shuffle the sofa and armchairs to the sides of the room to make way for air mattresses, Stiles doing his best to ignore the heated whispers coming from the kitchen. It figures that Isaac would take Scott's side in this, Stiles thinks bitterly. He never knows what personality whiplash he's going to get from Isaac who swerves between introspective with a surprisingly wry sense of humor or the catty power trip Isaac who came out of his shell after the bite.

Isaac's reaction isn't going to deter him from getting to the bottom of this, he resolves. He's just going to have to be a bit more careful sharing his suspicions. He knows, deep down in his gut that something isn't right and he's pretty sure Allison knows it too not only from the text message she sent him but also the meaningful glance she threw his way when she laid eyes on the manifestation of Lydia's powers.

It's a warning, he's sure of it.

He keeps his thoughts to himself for the rest of the evening as they get comfortable on the air mattresses and cushions. He shrugs in agreement when Kira presents them with two movie options. He wordlessly eats his popcorn, not really absorbing the movie but enjoying the pack's company all the same. They're halfway through the second option – some fluffy rom-com Lydia picked after Allison firmly stated, "We've got enough death and destruction in our lives. I don't need to watch it too," when Danny suggested watching The Hunger Games – when he drifts off to the background noise of friendly chatter. So, it's a bit of a rude shock to be abruptly woken by the loud creaking and thud of the front door swinging shut. Heart hammering wildly in his chest he whips his head around, looking for danger.

He's not sure how long he's been asleep, but it must have been hours judging by the dark tv screen, its red standby light glowing eerily in the dim living room. There's a quiet patter of sprinkling rain outside the window. Soft snores emanate from the lumpy shadow on the couch adjacent to his and he can vaguely make out the reflected red shine on Lydia's hair as she sits up, blinking blearily at the hallway. From his vantage point he can see the soft glow to the left of the hall, _the kitchen_ , his mind provides him. He can faintly hear the soft rushing of the kitchen faucet.

"Stiles, did you see where Ally went?" Lydia sleepily mumbles.

He hums back dismissively, settling back down onto his cushion, head resting against the arm of the sofa, "Pretty sure she's jus' gettin' a drink from the kitchen." His eyelids are lead, dragging him under the waves of sleep yet again. There's a long peaceful moment, broken by Lydia's uncertain, "She's been gone a long time. The faucet's still running."

Rubbing his eyes, he sits up to assure her, "I heard the front door - Chris just got home, she's probably catching up with him."

Even in the darkness, Stiles can see Lydia's eyes widen alarmingly. "Stiles, Chris has been here the whole time. He was watching the game with Isaac, remember?"

Alarm spikes through him. "But I just heard the front door close…?" He doesn't get to finish the thought before Lydia is up, speed walking her way to the kitchen. She twists the faucet off and rushes past Stiles as he speculatively gazes at the glass lying abandoned sideways on the countertop, still swaying slightly. He ducks back into the hall to see Lydia rip the front door open, eyes frantic.

Nonplussed, Stiles jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom, "Lyds, she's probably just gone to—"

"Allison!" Lydia barks, cutting him off. Without waiting for a response, she takes off towards the curb, ignoring the softly spitting rain.

He flounders for a second, uncertain. He can hear the muffled sounds of Danny and Kira waking from the doorway to his right.

"Lydia?" he calls at her retreating back, but she's too focused on catching up to Allison. He can barely make out her figure in the darkness. Her long, thick hair plastered to her back in the icy drizzle. She must be freezing in the winter cold in her thin flannel pajamas.

Throwing caution to the wind, Stiles steps out from the safety of the doorway. Nearly immediately regretting his decision when tendrils of freezing water drip down his back under the collar of his shirt. Hurriedly, he makes his way down the lawn, arms folded tightly and shivering already. The lawn is illuminated suddenly from a second-floor window. Shit, they must have woken Chris or Isaac with the noise.

As Stiles nears the pair, he can only make out snippets of what Lydia is pleading to Allison. Lydia shakes Allison's arm roughly, " _Wake up,_ Allison!" But she doesn't respond. She doesn't seem to notice the icy tendrils of rain run-off trickling over and around her bare feet in the gutter. She doesn't seem to notice anything at all judging by her vacant unblinking stare, ignoring Lydia's attempts to make eye contact. Mottled purple bruising under Allison's eyes from lack of sleep look even more pronounced than usual under the yellowed streetlight.

A sense of unease takes root in his chest. The last time he looked like that and went 'sleepwalking' he ended up in a coyote den trying to escape the Nogitsune. There's no way… Mrs. Yukimura _promised_ him it couldn't come back. Despite himself, he twists to follow Allison's line of sight, needing to know, needing to _see_ -

But there's nothing but the empty gutter on the opposite side of the street. His eyes catch and hold on the dark, gaping maw of the storm water drain. He stares intently into the black but it's all perfectly silent and still. He turns back to face the girls and – _there_! Out the corner of his eye, he swears something _moved_ in the pitch-black shadows. Heart thumping wildly in his chest he focuses on the darkness again, unsure if the sense of being watched is real or his own leftover paranoia. He takes a tentative step towards the gutter when-

" _ALLISON!"_ Lydia shrieks at point blank range causing the rapidly approaching Isaac to flinch harshly away. Chris isn't far behind him, a handgun held at the ready.

All at once Allison sucks in a harsh breath, eyes rolling wildly in their sockets as she adjusts to the waking world. Lydia smothers her in a soul crushing hug, her relieved breaths fogging in the winter chill.

"Lydia?" she mumbles confusedly.

"Sleepwalking again," Chris explains when Allison throws him a befuddled look over Lydia's shoulder.

"I was?" she questions. "I remember waking up and going to the kitchen for a drink and I swear I heard someone calling my name. It kind of sounded like Scott, honestly? I… I dunno. I guess I thought he was at the door? But it must have been a dream," she rubs her eyes with a balled-up fist. "I'm so sorry, guys. I didn't mean to wake you all up." She looks at them with anxious eyes, teeth chattering in the blisteringly cold rain.

Chris tucks her under his arm and leads her back into the warmth and safety of the house, heedless of the wet footprints they leave behind on the carpet from the dew damp grass.

Lydia throws Stiles a loaded look. He's not sure what it means. Does she think Allison has somehow-what… been infected by the Oni? Is she seeing things in the shadows too? Does she have uninvited visitors in her dreams as well? But then Lydia's eyes flicker unmistakably to the storm water drain and back to his. Like she's caught a glance of _something_ in her peripheral vision. Like she can sense a presence where his eyes see a suggestion of something _other._

Maybe it's not just his paranoid delusion, after all.

"C'mon…" Lydia leads him back into the house where Danny and Kira hover uncertainly in the doorway.

"Sleepwalking?" Kira questions the group, concerned.

"Or something," Stiles mutters quietly, resuming his seat on the sofa.

"Don't drag Allison into your conspiracy crap. Haven't you done enough already?" Isaac snaps as he drapes another blanket over Allison's shaking shoulders.

"Isaac…" Allison pleads quietly, looking into the steaming mug Chris has placed into her clammy hands.

"What conspiracy?" Chris sharply questions.

Isaac huffs an aggrieved breath, "Stiles here can't let go of his problems. He's paranoid. He's already annoyed Scott with his crazy ideas."

And that's it. That's the last straw. Stiles can handle almost anything scarf boy can throw at him, but it's too soon since the Nogitsune and the reminder of his Mom to be able to handle being called crazy.

"Allison," he demands imploringly, "what did you see out there?"

Her gaze shutters as she struggles internally with her answer.

"I-I don't think-"

"See!" Isaac snarls victoriously.

"Let her finish," Stiles adds coldly. "Because I think I saw _something_ out there. And I think you did too," he adds tentatively, gaze drifting between Allison and Lydia.

Allison's hold on her mug turns white-knuckled from the death grip she has on the handle. She takes a deep breath, "I… in the drain… I _thought_ I saw… I don't know," she says honestly. "I can't be sure. It was probably just a reflection-"

"Really, Stilinski?" Isaac deadpans. "You think you saw something in a drain? Did it have a red balloon and a clown face? Maybe you should lay off the horror movies until you're less messed up."

"I didn't say it was in the drain. She did. Unless you're calling Ally a liar now too?"

Isaac looks taken aback, but only for the briefest of moments. "I think you're just putting ideas in her head. I was out there too and I didn't see anything."

"Yeah, well you weren't looking, were you?" Stiles refutes.

"If I couldn't see anything with my eyes there's no way you saw anything in the dark with your human eyes. Couldn't smell anything either. Stop dragging her down with you," he spits, eyes faintly lit with a gold glow from within.

"Maybe now's not the time for a confrontation?" Danny tentatively chimes in.

"When is the time, Danny?" Stiles asks bitterly, "When more people are dead?". At Chris' look of surprise, he adds for the hunter's benefit, "Yeah, there are a few suspicious bodies in the morgue. Even more at the Rangers' station if you wanted to check it out too. Make sure I'm not just being 'delusional'," he adds in sarcastic air quotes.

"You've been told by Deaton and Scott-" Isaac growls, eyes glowing fiercely now

"Just because there's no giant lizard and no freaking Darach sacrifices doesn't mean there's nothing wrong!" Stiles yells over the top of Isaac's defense of Scott.

There's a deafening silence.

"Sometimes… sometimes we don't catch things right away. We're not always the ones to find the bodies, ok? We couldn't be. There's only so many of us, we can't be everywhere at once." Stiles looks around seeing grim acceptance in Chris' eyes, Lydia chewing her lip in uncertainty and Kira frowning in thought.

Kira breaks the contemplative silence, "When you guys woke the nemeton or whatever it was you did before I got here… the nogitsune was _already_ underneath it. It had been there for years and no one ever knew."

Stiles nods furiously in agreement and adds, "Deaton said the nemeton is a beacon, right? What if the beacon has brought something to town or…" here he flounders in Kira's direction, his argument gathering steam, "activated someone's powers! That could happen, right?"

Danny looks lost, not having been privy to most of what went down despite Lydia giving him the spark notes summary of their last year or so. Lydia looks hesitant, too uncertain of her own abilities to confirm her own intuitive feelings. Kira… looks oddly excited at the prospect of a new mystery to solve. Isaac still looks at him scornfully but Chris-

Chris is looking worriedly at the back of Allison's downcast head. "It can't hurt to make sure," he nods decisively. "Does your dad know about your suspicions?" he asks Stiles. At his affirmative nod Chris claps a hand on Isaac's shoulder, "Well, I'll look into it over the next few days. For now, why don't we all get dry and try to get some more sleep, hmm? Stiles, I think I've got some old sweats you can wear upstairs…"

On that note, Chris leans over the sofa to give Allison a brief one-armed hug and shepherds Isaac up the stairs to his room. Stiles follows obediently, taking the offered clothes and gestured directions to the upstairs bathroom. The adrenaline from the argument is still racing through his veins, distracting him from his cold, damp clothes. The chill of the tiles on his bare feet is a rude awakening though. He loses track of time in the steamy shower, letting his forehead rest on the cool tile, the hot water beating down on his back. He mindlessly goes through the motions of getting dressed and, yawning widely, he steps back into the living room, overlong sleeves hanging loosely at his fingertips. Allison has taken his place on the sofa. Meeting his eyes, she pats the space next to her, gesturing for him to sit. Faintly he can hear the shower down the hall running, Lydia he assumes.

Together they sit in silence, broken only by the snuffling of Kira and Danny's soft snores. He's surprised they fell back asleep so quickly but a glance at the mantel clock warns him that it's been nearly 45 minutes. Distantly, he hopes between his and Allison's showers they haven't used all the hot water or Lydia will be furious.

Allison's quiet voice interrupts his sleepy musings, "Stiles you'll have to forgive Isaac – he's been really defensive about… well, everything since the graveyard."

At Stiles' questioning look she adds sadly, "that burst water main or whatever it was. His Dad and his brother's graves were in that plot. Since he's the next of kin he's had to deal with all the paperwork to relocate them and organize new caskets."

"The creek flooded," he corrects absentmindedly, recalling his dad's radio call. "Why would he be all worked up about it? His brother, yeah, I get it. But his dad was an abusive dickbag!"

Allison sighs, "I know… but it's harder to hate them when it's family. I know my mom did terrible things… She tried to kill Scott. Scott of all people?" she asks disbelievingly. "But she's my mom… I can't help but love her even though she did horrible things. You get that right?"

He thinks back to his mom lashing out in her delusions, telling him he's not her son. That he's a monster trying to kill her. Having to be sedated and restrained when the delusions turned physical… yeah, he gets it.

"I get it," he admits softly. "That doesn't mean he gets a free pass to be an ass though."

She lets out a quiet snort at his unintended rhyme, "No, he shouldn't. I'll talk to him."

They sit in companionable silence listening to the quiet rain on the glass pane of the window.

"Stiles," she whispers hoarsely, "I think something's happening to me," her voice wavers with repressed emotion. "I keep losing track of time. I'm hearing whispers, seeing things out the corner of my eye."

She looks at him beseechingly, "You believe me, right?"

At his silent nod, she continues, "I'm scared, Stiles. I don't think this is just stress or… or trauma like everyone thinks it is. Do… do you think it's back?"

"No," he assures her. "But whatever it is, we'll work it out. I promise."


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles is elbows deep in a dilapidated cardboard box, seams bulging against the duct tape barely holding it together.

"It's the brown one," Peter chimes helpfully over the phone set to speaker from his desk.

"Peter, half of these are brown!" Stiles gestures to his disaster of a room, despite Peter being unable to see him. Heavy, leather-bound tomes lay abandoned on his desk, floor and bed, opened to yellowed pages with faded handwritten notes. There are even some floppy disks with peeling, aged labels. Useless to Stiles, though, there's only one computer he knows of that can take the disks and it's the ancient, loudly whirring heap with the behemoth monitor at the town library. Lucille, the positively medieval crone who runs the place would rather drop dead than let him back in there after the great Shelf Tipping incident of 2007.

"Why do none of these ever have a goddamn contents page? Or an index!" Stiles exclaims in frustration.

"Because that would be too easy now, wouldn't it?" Peter teases.

"You know, Buffy made epic research montages look a lot more enjoyable than this…" Stiles sighs dolefully, observing the chaos of his bedroom.

"Consider yourself lucky it's only the one box. There used to be a small library in the house before…"

"Yes, well, thank God for overnight shipping that's all I can say. How the hell you managed to get a courier to deliver these on Christmas Eve beats me. Did you have to threaten him or something?" Stiles asks, gingerly peeling aged pages apart.

"Hmm yes, well, several paid out life insurance policies will give you enough money to do a great many things."

Stiles winces at the mention of the Hale house tragedy, coughing awkwardly he attempts to change the subject, "Wouldn't Deaton have some books or something to help us?"

Peter scoffs, "Based on what you've said it doesn't sound like Deaton is on board yet. Besides, he's a druid. They deal with knowledge, yes, but they don't deal out the knowledge to outsiders unless absolutely necessary. Even amongst their own practitioners, they work mostly independently. They trade information rather than offer it freely. They can't have one druid amassing too much information or power, could they?" Peter asks sardonically. "Too much risk of another Darach. Their preference for non-interference ensures that. It's part of what has helped keep the supernatural safe from the public for so long."

Derek, who up until this point had been silently lurking in the background, adds, "Deaton has been more helpful than most. But you'll find he only offers that help to Scott and his pack. And only when Scott is actively in danger. He's very talented at letting you think he's given you all the information, but he keeps his cards close to the chest."

Stiles considers that for a moment. It's true, Deaton has been reluctant at times. He can't help but remember Derek kidnapping Deaton, assuming he was the alpha. Deaton must have known who Derek was. It would have been easy enough for the vet to prove he wasn't the alpha Derek was looking for. Not to mention hiding his sister's involvement with the Alpha pack…

Stiles muses, "I said Deaton might have books we could use. I never said I was going to ask him first. I've got a clinic key— "

"How does that not surprise me," Derek interrupts, fond amusement in his tone.

"What? It's called being resourceful. I've copied keys to everyone's houses. Scott's, Lydia's, the loft, the school, the Camaro, the sheriff's station and the evidence room—"

Derek's worried, "You have a key to my Camaro?!" is swiftly ignored by Stiles in favor of Peter's scoffed, "The sheriff's son— a criminal in the making…Which keys don't you have?"

"Hospital swipe card actually, had to pick the lock on the morgue rear entrance instead."

There's a moment of static-filled silence down the line. Stiles raises his brows at the phone, waiting for the Hale's response.

"Well someone's a bit of a boy scout. You certainly like to be prepared, don't you?" Peter muses.

"Afraid not," Stiles smirks, "I got kicked out Scouts within six months for selling badges to the other kids. It seemed stupid to do all that work when the badges were just sitting there in the cupboard at the back…"

Derek clears his throat, bringing them back to the topic at hand. "Are you sure it's got something to do with water?" he asks.

Stiles looks around his room, surveying his cluttered wall of evidence. His eyes skim the printed copies of the medical examiner's notes for Chris Coleman, the notes and water sample data from the Park Ranger's office, a still frame from the hospital surveillance of Ashley Cook, and the crime scene notes from Daniel Ellis.

And on a bright pink post-it note, a large question mark written in bold sharpie. Underneath it: 'Allison? Sleepwalking? What was in the drain?'.

A frisson of fear trickles down Stiles' spine at the thought of Allison joining the ranks of the rest of the unfortunate souls on his crime board.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah. I mean, I can't rule out some sort of supernatural contagion…Wait, is that a thing? Is mermaid malaria a thing? Parvo for werewolves?"

Derek's irrepressible sigh echoes from the phone lying on the cluttered desk. "Stiles…focus."

Stiles' eyes widen, "That wasn't a no. Don't think I didn't notice your deflection there."

"I have no idea what you mean…" Derek lies obviously, a teasing tone in his voice that makes Stiles' cheeks heat up.

Peter brings him sharply back to reality, "Is water the only connection here though?"

He sighs, "It looks like there's a clear connection to water. I'm just not entirely sure how or why yet. It could all just be coincidental but…"

Peter hums, the sound of his laptop keys ticking away audible even over the speakerphone.

"We need to narrow it down," Derek says, "there are still too many variables in using 'water' as a basis. There's gotta be thousands of creatures and spells that use water. Go through it from the beginning. What happened first?"

"The animals in the preserve," Stiles answers, carefully unpinning the notes he liberated from his dad's investigation. "There's been around two dozen or so bodies, a range of species – some deer, raccoons, squirrels, you know. No signs of infection or rabies so I thought poison or maybe a hallucinogenic contamination…but the water samples came back clear of any toxins, there's no foreign substances, it's just, y'know, plain old creek water," he shrugs.

"So, did they drown? Refuse to drink, how do they link to the water exactly? Derek asks.

"That's the thing," Stiles begins, "so the fawn we found and took back for testing? Died of dehydration, right—"

"While it's touching that you feel sad for Bambi, that's not an uncommon occurrence when the doe passes and the herd has moved on," Peter adds dismissively.

"That's the thing though – three or so died of dehydration, not just the fawn. There's another handful that seems to have drowned, a few that died of bloat, and two that have been found drowned miles from the creek."

"Is this the whole preserve or just one waterway?" Derek questions, and Stiles can almost picture the adorable broody furrowed eyebrow face he makes when he's concentrating intently. He never knew eyebrows could be so expressive until he met Derek.

Stiles looks over at his Beacon Hills county map, provided unknowingly by the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department. He carefully traces the pattern his yellow push pins have made, "It started out as a cluster in this little creek, pond whatever just inside the preserve. But then the pattern moves downstream a little, like it's traveling, right? Except the next few bodies found were about 2 miles away, near where the Hale property line borders the preserve. Then there's another few right on the edge of town, still really close to the preserve, right?"

At Peter and Derek's murmur of assent he continues, "But then there were the weird animal control call-outs. There was a bear near the elementary school, the elk that ran onto the road for no apparent reason."

"You're serious, a bear?" Derek asks incredulously. "There haven't been bears near Beacon Hills for years. They're not fond of werewolves so they tend to keep away from our territories."

Peter, however, muses darkly, "The elk concern me – what's forcing them out of the woods?"

"Well, they certainly ran from you when you went through your crazy horror movie Alpha phase," Stiles reminds him none too gently.

"That's exactly my point, idiot. The multiple causes of death are intriguing though. Is there more than one? Or does this creature, assuming it's a creature of course and not a curse of some kind, have multiple methods of capturing and killing its prey…" Peter ponders.

"You'd assume that, but none of the animals appear to have been eaten at all. If it's consuming something from them, I have no idea what."

"That…is actually helpful. That might narrow down a great deal of creatures," Peter murmurs, distracted by whatever he's reading on his laptop.

"I've had a look," Stiles huffs, frustrated, as he rifles through the water-damaged pages of _El libro de los seres imaginarios_ and wishing he'd learned more than curse words in Spanish 101. His eyes nearly roll out of his head in exasperation at the mangled English and Spanish entry entitled 'Axehandle Hound' detailing in ludicrous detail a wild dog which has an axe for a face and eats, you guessed it – axe handles. He feels a heavy sinking in his stomach at the amount of superstitious bullshit contained in the dilapidated boxes before him he has yet to wade through to have any hope of finding the answers he seeks. He's ready to shotput the book through his bedroom window until his page opens to the 'Banshees' entry. He skims it distractedly…it doesn't all match up to what he knows Lydia can do, but some of it could be interesting to explore…

"Stiles? You there?" Derek's voice derails his train of thought. He can almost feel Derek's eyebrow raised in judgment all the way from Seattle. It's probably not the first time Derek tried to get his attention…Whoops.

"Sorry," Stiles flounders, "I got caught up in a weird book. This one is mostly in Spanish, which, y'know is of great use to me right now…"

Peter scoffs, "You didn't honestly expect every useful book about the supernatural to be in English did you?"

"No," grumbles Stiles, "but seeing as how the only other person I know fluent in Spanish is currently telling me I'm mentally unstable and the real problem here I think this one will go untranslated."

An uncomfortable silence rings out as they all contemplate Scott's recent less-than-great attitude.

"He'll get over it," Derek tries, "Scott's always been bull-headed when he thinks he's right about something."

"Yeah," Stiles' voice cracks, "but he's always given me the benefit of the doubt before. I've broken his trust, I guess. It wasn't me, but all he sees is it wearing my face—"

"You know that isn't what –"

"I just – I need to do this. I need to make up for what I – what _it_ did. You get that, don't you?" His eyes sting with salt and he takes a harsh breath to dispel the tears threatening to form.

In a softer voice Derek adds, "Yeah, Stiles, we do. We're here aren't we?"

"Touching as this moment undoubtedly is…time is of the essence here. Which book in Spanish are you referring to?" Peter asks.

Stiles flips the yellowed, curling pages shut to read the faintly golden title. "It's some cobbled-together book – it's mostly Spanish with some grammatically incorrect English thrown in. It's uh — _El libro de los seres imaginarios?_ The creatures seem…odd…but the pictures are good?" He's expecting some sort of sarcastic quip about picture books and his reading level. What he gets instead is Peter erupting into laughter.

"Oh, I forgot to put a note on that one, I can see why you'd be confused," Peter laughs. "It's a family hand-me-down book of children's bedtime stories basically."

"You…you tell werewolf kids about an axe-handle dog? Sorry, but why the actual hell would you do that? No offense, but no wonder you're messed up, Derek," Stiles rues as he tosses the book onto his 'not today, Satan' pile.

"That's part of the point, Stiles," Derek chuckles, "when you're one of the things that other kids are scared of, it's good to have something unrealistic to use in spooky stories."

Stiles' sense of curiosity perks up in his mind like a tantalizing whisper. Here's a great way to get an insight into supernatural culture. To get an insight in Derek before everything went wrong…

"Don't dismiss it as childish foolishness though," Peter warns, "there are kernels of truth in there – we have to learn about others just as they learn about us. As for the…more imaginative entries and details…well, we have to spread disinformation to protect us somehow, in case it fell into the wrong hands."

Stiles hums, making a mental note to read more when things are a bit less murdery in good ole Beacon Hills. He reaches back into the box, idly flipping through a few leather-backed tomes, "So, which of these did you want me to check then? I mean, I have Gerard's bestiary on my laptop I could use?"

Peter scoffs, "Pure propaganda and nonsense. That is a bestiary written by hunters for hunters. You couldn't read anything more biased. Their concern is killing. My bestiary is compiled from emissaries and packs. That bestiary you have says silver kills werewolves – nothing but pretentious bullshit from the Argents."

Derek hums his agreement. Stiles brings an already abused hand to his mouth and starts chewing nervously as he paces, casting anxious looks at the phone. "So, speaking of Argents…"

"And what did dear Christopher and his darling huntress do now?" Peter asks sardonically.

"It's not like that," Stiles says hurriedly, "It's…she's…"

"Allison's alright, isn't she? You know she doesn't blame you, right?" Derek asks.

"No, no that's all fine," he waves a hand dismissively despite the Hales being unable to see, "but she's been having trouble sleeping, sleepwalking, losing time…"

"Your point being…? Those all sound like classic signs of trauma to be honest, you should know," Peter murmurs, his focus clearly still on his laptop.

"That's exactly it! I should know. She thinks – I thi— we both think that whatever this thing is, she's seen it. Or she's next. I know you don't like her family – and for good reason!" he rushes, "but she knows something isn't right. I'm not about to ignore her. If I'd been more open about the Nogitsune and the dreams I was having maybe none of this would have happened. Or maybe it would, but…," Stiles mumbles.

"It's alright, you don't have to justify yourself to me, Stiles. I trust you. We'll add Allison's behavior to the list."

Stiles can't help the relieved sigh that escapes him. He slumps heavily on the bed, gazing up at his suspicions tacked across his crime board. "Thanks, Der. There's more though."

"Isn't there always?" Derek asks wryly.

"I told you about the morgue stuff, right?"

"You told Derek on the phone yesterday in that little chat you had before whatever soiree thing you had with Lydia. Thankfully he had the presence of mind to pass it on," Peter sulks.

"Peter…" Derek warns.

"What's the matter, nephew? Afraid I'll–" Peter's smarmy tone is cut off by an indignant squawk muffled scuffling sounds erupt from the phone lying innocuously on the desk.

Stiles edges closer to the phone in morbid curiosity. "Is everything alright?" he ventures. There's the sound of Peter's muffled cursing and what sounds like a hostile whispered flurry before a calm yet annoyed Derek responds, "There's three of them, yeah?".

"Yeah…" Stiles continues, a sardonic brow raised at the phone. "I'm just supposed to ignore all that?"

"Yes, you are," he responds curtly. "And these bodies are all connected by your water theory?"

Stiles hums, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth in thought. "That's the thing – those other two? Scissors girl and that Coleman guy? Could be explained away in one way or another. I mean, people drown, people do…that," he handwaves at the grainy surveillance shot of Ashley, scissors held aloft, "But Ellis…" he eyes the water sample analysis printout with a wary eye.

Something about Ellis's case just doesn't add up. How could he get to Oak Creek when all signs point to death by dishwater? God, maybe the killer just brought a bucket of soapy water with them, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing in the world he thinks wryly, remembering the moths and crows of the Darach.

"That's the one your dad's investigating, right?" Derek asked.

"Yeah, this one just seems off to me. It kinda looks like the animals in the preserve, but I just don't see how someone was drowned with no signs of self-defense. The doc reckons he was unconscious when he drowned…"

"That's not really unusual, Stiles. It sounds like a pretty efficient way to dispose of someone if you're in a hurry…" Peter muses thoughtfully.

"That's the thing though," Stiles urges, "all the signs say he drowned in his kitchen sink. How the hell did he walk to his ' _death_ '?" Stiles aggressively air-quotes.

He can hear the pause in Peter's incessant typing even on speakerphone. "Say that again," Peter demands.

"I said he uh – walked to his death?" he questions warily, eyes searching the dim surveillance photos of Ellis half-hidden under the mess of red yarn connecting it to his map of the county as though it would suddenly reveal it's secrets to him.

"How sure are you exactly that that's what happened?" comes the urgent reply.

"Uhh…pretty damn sure?" he says, carefully untacking the CCTV photo of Ellis' soulless jaunt to the creek and the crime scene snap of his water-logged kitchen floor. His mind starts whirring – what is he missing?

"Explain," Peter's curt tone interrupts his thoughts.

"It might be easier if I just send you what I've got. Hang on," he mumbles, snatching his phone up. He quickly snaps a photo of the evidence and texts it to Derek. He hears the muffled rumble on the other end of the line that signals it's been received.

"Ok, so uh— that first one? Is CCTV footage of Ellis walking to Oak Creek, right? But look – it's cold as balls out there at that time of night and he's not even wearing shoes. The cops initially thought he was stoned out of his mind – he walked right across an intersection without looking once. That's what weird though – he supposedly drowned in soapy water so when you look at that other picture I sent—"

"Ah, yes I see what you mean. What are the blue and red markings you've made?"

"Those blue ones are Ellis' prints. Or I think they are anyway. The red seems to belong to our killer. That's the theory anyway."

"So, he either wasn't alone when whatever this was happening — or someone walked in later?" Derek asks.

"I asked Dad about that and here's where it gets a bit too Scooby-Doo for his tastes. The red ones look like some sort of round-toed boot, right? But I can't find the tread pattern online anywhere. I got no clue what that weird triangle cut out is. Dad thinks it because the perp tiptoed so there's no heel print. But they disappear before they reach the door."

"No boot prints outside the door?"

"No! None! That's what's bugging me! You can see this guy lead him out towards the door from the direction of the prints, but then they get kinda muddled when they step all over each other's prints. But the only prints out the door are Ellis'. So this mystery guy can't have picked him up. And I doubt Ellis gave this guy a piggyback ride. No offense, but he was a pretty skinny dude and those shoes look huge. Guy's gotta be built like a brick house."

There's a long, drawn-out moment of contemplation and some murmuring between Derek and Peter he can't quite catch. Deciding he might as well make himself useful he digs another tome out of the box, _Herbalism and Spiritual Medicin_ e. He cringes at the thought of becoming a patchouli smelling hippy and puts it aside for now. He'd envisaged his emissary journey as being a little more Dumbledore and a little less Professor Trelawney. The small, black leather book embossed, _Practical Rites and Runes_ tucked between two musty tomes seems more his speed. Absentmindedly spinning on his office chair he skims through the pages while he waits. Several minutes (and several dog-eared pages later), there are some hurried page ruffles from the other end of the call before Peter's voice breaks the uneasy truce.

"This looks familiar to me. Derek, why does this look familiar to me?" He can hear Peter mumbling frustratedly to himself, laptop keyboard sounding more abused by the second.

"Could it be something like this? A water golem instead of an earth one?"

Peter scoffs, "No, you idiot. Golems are made of clay. You wouldn't ask one to drown a man."

Stiles hesitates, "Uhhhm, two things: number one, yeah you would because it would just dissolve after, right? And two, golems are a thing, too? Why does no one ever tell me this shit?"

"You're highly unlikely to encounter one," Peter dismisses. "Besides, they tend to be around eight feet tall and as incompetent as the sheriff's department may be—", Stiles' indignant "Hey!" is swiftly ignored, "I find it hard to believe that they, or anyone else, in fact, would miss a clay behemoth escorting this young man to his death."

Derek sighs, "You've made your point. What were you thinking about with these shoe prints? Work boots? Galoshes?"

Stiles can't help but smother a laugh. "Galoshes? I'll take 'words I never thought I'd hear Derek Hale say for $200, Alex".

"Stiles…" he huffs aggrieved.

"I tried all those, big guy, no dice. I tried all kinds of shoes- steel caps, _galoshes_ , hell, I even tried stilts in case it was some crazy clown coming in to town because that's just what we need right now, a murderous clown and nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. What can I say, there's no shoes that match. Or none that I can find without the other half, at least."

There's a sudden intake of breath.

"That's it. My god, we're stupid." He can hear Peter vaguely muttering insults as he researches whatever inspiration has struck him. "You were right in a way, Stiles, though I don't know how we didn't see it earlier…"

"Mmm, yeah, might need to elaborate on that – you're being all kinds of vague here."

"You said you can't find the shoe print, right? _That's because it isn't wearing shoes._ Literally, it has no shoes on."

"I'm with Stiles on this one, spit it out," says Derek.

"It's a damn horse hoof, you idiots, look!" Peter snarls. "You're used to seeing those typical prints with horseshoes on. That—" he burst triumphantly, "Is a horse hoof without a shoe. And what supernatural horse do we know that likes water?" he drawls.

"A kelpie?!" Stiles yelps.

Derek hums approvingly, "It does fit…"

Peter continues, "It certainly sounds like a kelpie – leading a man to his watery death. It's no Scottish pond, but I suppose they can't be picky in this day and age."

"Wait," Stiles rushes to his laptop, frantically scrolling down the Argent bestiary, "don't they drag them into the water with their manes or something? No one saw a horse. There are no other prints near the creek."

"Mmm, yes that is troubling. But luring a victim to walk to their own death certainly fits. As much as it pains me to admit it, perhaps you should check with Argent while we check here. I haven't heard of a kelpie leaving its territory, or body of water as it were. We don't know much about them at all. Though I suppose they do have to travel from pond to pond somehow…" he trails off.

Derek fills the silence, "We'll check in with the Montgomery Pack—they might know of another pack who's dealt with a kelpie. See if you can match your other evidence to that creek. It's odd that it's only killed them and not eaten them—" Stiles can hear a murmured 'eats livers' from a distant Peter, "If it is a kelpie there must be some link – they might have trespassed on its territory, some form of retribution maybe?"

"What, you think it's got a motive?"

"Well, if it's not eating them for survival, it's killing them for something."

Stiles chews his lip absentmindedly as he contemplates his Beacon County map. "I mean, I'll uh, try to match up the vic's locations and narrow down if there's a specific body of water nearby?"

"Sounds like a plan Emissary Stilinski," Derek teases. "Call us back if you find anything out from Argent. We'll let you know what we can find out here."

"You guys are headed down soon, right? How many more hoops are the Montgomery pack going to make you guys jump through to get your stuff back?"

"Always a few more," mutters Peter.

"We'll drive down Boxing Day, we're supposed to be guests of honor for Christmas Dinner—"

Peter snarkily interrupts, "'Guest' is an interesting way to describe 'forced against my will'…"

Stiles can nearly hear Derek's eye-roll over speakerphone. His eyes keep being drawn to the worn leather of _Practical Rites and Runes_ , its faintly gleaming gilded title beckoning him closer. "See you then, dude."

Derek's retort of, "Don't call me—" is interrupted when Stiles gleefully ends the call before he can finish. Stifling a laugh, he snatches _Practical Rites and Runes_ up and collapses back onto the bed, hastily prying a knobbly book from underneath his back and tossing it aside. He runs his fingers over the worn cover, admiring the light glinting from the gold foil letters in the late afternoon light. It's a little worn, he notes, thumbing the soft-edged, worn page corners. Well worn means well-loved, he supposes. Maybe too well-loved…, he thinks as he spies an ominously green stain on the corner of one page.

Derek told him to trust his gut. And his intuition is tugging at him insistently towards the little innocuous looking grimoire in his hand. Relaxing further back into his pillows he cracks the pages, instantly enamored with the thin, spidery writing within. Holy shit.

It has a contents page.

Stiles thanks every deity he can think of before he loses himself in page upon page of archaic recipes, rune diagrams, and ingredient notes. Some recipes have tiny annotations in the margin, some helpful (double this amount), some troubling (never use again – on a slightly singed page), and some he can't make heads or tails of. A few small rituals catch his eye, but the materials list isn't exactly something he can pop down to the shops and buy. He might have to make good on his joke to rob borrow from Deaton after all, he muses, eyeing a detailed drawing of a crystal he's sure he's seen sitting on the shelves behind the clinic's front desk. There are some very interesting pages on creative ways to ward a home or a person using mountain ash and other materials – something that interests him greatly after the Alpha Pack. Scott and Isaac always looked at him like he was crazy for carrying a small plastic film canister of mountain ash in his pocket afterward. But the jokes on them, he smirks, hastily snapping pictures on his phone of ideas to use later. There is one ritual that he keeps coming back to however– fingers drifting over the inked rune illustration. A spell for revealing bad intentions and to open his intuition up to magical and spiritual energies. He's ready to dismiss it out of hand. Energies my ass, he thinks, imagining himself dressed as a shoddy tarot card reader in an incense clogged tent. But the book seems clear on one thing – you must have the force of belief to force the energies of the world to fit your beliefs. Obviously relying on belief isn't great for someone so pessimistic.

Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath as he scans the ingredients list one final time. He's gonna believe the fuck out of this.

He impatiently thunders down the carpeted stairs to the kitchen. Thankfully his dad isn't home to witness this insanity, he thinks, as he grabs the nearest cereal bowl from the dish rack. Yanking open the kitchen cupboard he riffles through the shoebox full of assorted herb and spice sachets. His quarry in hand he tips his armload of pilfered goods onto the countertop.

"Salt," he mutters to himself, tipping in what he _thinks_ is the right amount before firmly reminding himself that no, he definitely _believes_ that's the right amount of salt.

"Ok…salt to purify the bad, next is…chamomile", he triumphantly pulls an ancient tea bag from a dusty box. The tea belonged to his mom, back when she was having night terrors in an attempt to finally get a restful sleep. He hopes they'll be of more use to him than they ended up being for her.

Grabbing a pair of scissors from the kitchen junk drawer he carefully snips a corner off and tries to measure 'a large pinch' of the fragile mix into his bowl.

Next is rosemary. He tosses in a few shakes of the glass jar. He's about to replace the lid when he hesitates. According to the book, rosemary is supposed to help cleanse your mind of negative energy and anxieties. Casting a wary look over his shoulder, he hurriedly and furiously shakes in more rosemary. What they don't know won't hurt them. Besides, it's about his belief, right? He might end up smelling like a roast chicken after this, but he's willing to risk if for a nogitsune free night of sleep. Shaking the bowl gently to mix the concoction, he summons his courage for the next target. Acacia bark from old Mrs. Hennessey's tree two doors down.

The sun is starting to cast a dull orange glow under the threatening rain clouds forming as he slips out his front door. Trying to be unobtrusive he heads down the sidewalk, hoping he looks casual. He's obviously failing at it based on the side-eye the neighbor's cat is giving him. The tree itself is well-known in his street. Growing so close to the sidewalk the concrete has buckled under the force of the roots beneath it. The council has threatened to cut it down several times, but Old Hennessey excels in making a scene with her distraught pensioner routine. He's caught her smirking when yet another council inspector turns tail in the face of her crocodile tears wailing. He's nearly at the trunk when he catches her kitchen curtains twitch to the side out the corner of his eye.

Damn it.

Oh well, he reasons, nothing for it now, as he pries up a finger length of bark – shoving it into his hoody pocket and flashing Mrs. Hennessey's glinting eyes a jaunty wave and obnoxious smile. Stiles scurries back inside before any of his other spying neighbors feel the need to report his odd behavior back to his dad.

Bowl and bark in hand, he makes his way to the bathroom sink, making a quick detour to his bedroom to retrieve one last ingredient. A bottle of holy water (thanks Amazon!) he'd stuffed behind the Twilight novels he bought in a flight of fancy, hoping he'd gain Lydia's attention by reading them. It backfired spectacularly of course, and she subtly mocked him for months, but he knows it's one place his dad would never touch. He didn't need the awkward questions about why he possessed holy water from his dad pre-werewolf reveal.

If this spell works he might have to do the online course to become an ordained minister just so he can make his own. It seems like a useful ability for an emissary-in-training to have. Even if only to flick holy water at Isaac in an attempt to exorcise him out of spite. Scott for that matter too, he thinks bitterly.

Amazon sourced holy water in hand (and to think Scott said it would never come in handy), he pours enough over the herbs to mix them into a paste using the stolen…liberated, rather, acacia bark.

Okay, he thinks, taking a deep breath in.

I can do this. It's all about belief. I can do this. This will work. This will let me see what I'm missing. What they're all not seeing. What Scott refuses to—

He stops, eyes opening to see his own frustrated face reflected back at him in the mirror.

Fuck that, he tells himself. You don't need anyone to believe in you but you. And Derek. But mostly you, he thinks, shaking his head to clear it.

Closing his eyes and clearing his mind once more he tries to focus on that inner spark of intuition, boosting it, consolidating it until he's brimming with certainty.

Almost instinctively, he lifts the acacia bark and paints the rune he's committed to memory on the mirror. _Inverted elder futhark algiz…to awaken his intuition and alert him to the unseen dangers hiding on the other side._

Once the upside-down rune is a glistening smear on his mirror, he dips the bark into the mix again. Carefully, he dabs the mix on both closed eyelids and in the center of his forehead. _To intuit the dangers seen on this plane._

He slowly opens his eyes, not sure what he was expecting to see exactly, but feeling a slight twinge of disappointment that there wasn't some obvious effect.

Trying hard to keep the doubts at bay, he packs up his supplies, and, after a moment's hesitation, keeps them on his desk rather than throwing them in the trash. No point throwing away an experiment before you've even had a result, he supposes. He resists the urge to rub his eyes, the herb mix leaving them feeling gritty but knowing it needs to stay on until it dries and flakes off on its own. The extra rosemary sounded like a good idea at the time he thinks bemusedly.

No time like the present to test it out either, he thinks. It's only barely dark outside but already he can hear the siren call of sleep when he glances at his pillow. Carefully moving his new book collection piles to their new homes on the floor he tucks _Practical Rites and Runes_ next to his bedside table lamp, wriggles out of his jeans, and flips the covers over him. He wriggles around to find the sweet spot that never fails to get him comfortable enough to doze off.

The next thing he knows, there's a loud pounding noise in his head. Squinting blearily into the darkness, he tries to cover his head with his blanket, hoping to drown it out.

The thumping is incessant though.

His alarm clock reads 10:28 pm. He's been out of it for a surprisingly long time it seems.

Grumpily sighing, he stumbles his way down the stairs to the hall. It's probably his dad at the door after leaving his house keys at the station yet again.

It's not.

It's Lydia. Lydia, looking distinctly unimpressed by his sleep rumpled hair and Batman boxers.

It's at this point Stiles abruptly remembers it's Christmas Eve and therefore winter when an icy rain damp chill sweeps past Lydia and up into said boxers. Yelping, he gestures her in and rushes upstairs for sweatpants. She follows sedately, watching him in barely concealed amusement as he hops on one foot trying to force the sweats on.

"So, uh – what brings you here this late?" Stiles asks, running a hand through his tousled nest of hair.

"You weren't answering your phone," Lydia purses her lips in irritation, but concern shines in her eyes.

"My what – oh!" he fumbles to the phone lying abandoned at the foot of his bed. He must have left it there when he went off to do his Harry Potter impression. As suspected the screen remains resolutely dark when he tries to unlock it.

"Sorry, Lyds. Fell asleep and forgot to charge it."

She lets a considered hum escape her as she eyes the mounds of books slowly but steadily taking over his bedroom. "New research project?" she asks shrewdly.

"Uh – something like that," he deflects, eyeing the messy piles.

"Look, Stiles. If there's something strange going on then I want in," Lydia says abruptly, interrupting Stiles' rapid-fire excuses he was cooking up.

"Uhh…was that an intentional Ghostbusters reference?".

She rolls her eyes at him in impatience, "Focus, Stiles. I'm a banshee – if anything is haunting you guys, I'm the most qualified to help."

"I can't. You made a Ghostbusters reference. Why couldn't I still be in love you with you?" he bemoans overdramatically.

A small smirk graces Lydia's face. "You know why. Besides, your attentions lie elsewhere at the moment…" Before he can panic too much about what she means she interrupts with a loud, "I think…no, I know something is going to happen tonight."

Stiles leaps into action, forcibly directing her toward his empty desk chair. "Alright, spill."

She eyes his haphazard work in progress crime board, a mess of half connected colored yarn and pages. Meeting his eyes, she reflects, "I've been feeling like something and is going to happen. A lot."

"When did this start happening?"

"Two days ago. You know, where I had to scream to wake her up in the tub? It's don't know how it helped exactly, but it's like I turned the volume up on this thing and it's coming in clearer now. But that's the thing, I'd had this slightly funny feeling for a while. Since—" here she briefly eyes Stiles sympathetically, "just before the Nogitsune. At first, I thought it was a side effect of the sacrifices you made. That I was sensing the darkness in your hearts but it doesn't seem right."

She sighs, "I couldn't stop thinking about that painting I ruined last night. I was so…embarrassed that it had happened to me again. That I'd lost control again. But then after Allison…she's clearly affected by whatever this thing is. I can't stand by and do nothing and let her get hurt. I already stuck my head in the sand before and my friends got hurt."

Lydia snags her bulky purse and takes out a well-worn sketchbook. "I tried automatic writing again, like that time with the Darach. Except this time, instead of ignoring what I end up with, I'll trust that it's important. We might not know how it's important right away, but last time I drew the nemeton," she shrugs, "so I trusted and believed and I ended up with this…"

She flips the sketchbook open to inky tendrils across the page like a circulatory system. Loose, curved lines that flow and twist and branch off. On the corner of the page, the thickest line ends in a tangle of lines and rectangular boxes. The drawing continues across the wire-bound spiral joining the pages and then abruptly becomes sharp, precise lines and angles like an etch a sketch gone wild.

Stiles tilts the pages back and forth like it's a magic eye puzzle and if he looks hard enough it'll reveal a word or an image. "Is this the nemeton again or something?"

"I was thinking about Allison and that… _thing_ in the drain and I realized…"

She pins the curved one over the Beacon Hills map – it's the waterways in the preserve.

Lydia pins the angular, precise lines over the township map – the water supply for the town.

"So…what are you…is your banshee-ness saying?"

"That it's moving – from the preserve to the town through the water supply. It's not limited to one body of water because it _is_ one connected waterway." She taps a perfectly manicured finger against the nexus between the two harshly different line styles. "It's going through the treatment plant where the stormwater drain filtration is. From there…", he follows her path along the thicker inked line as it branches off underneath the entire town.

Fuck.

"God, I hope it's not a basilisk."

Lydia rolls her eyes at him, "Not everything that happens in this town has a basis in Harry Potter, Stiles."

"You're right…besides, if anything is the basilisk it's definitely Jackson," he teases, dodging the slap she aims at his arm as she uncharacteristically lets out a cackle.

Eyes glinting, she smirks, "You're a jerk."

"Yeah, made you laugh though," he nudges her with an elbow. Her eyes glitter for a moment before she turns her head away.

"Lydia…?"

She sniffles quietly and stands straighter as if to brush off the moment of vulnerability she revealed.

"I haven't laughed like that in a while, that's all."

His eyes catch and hold on the slightly bulging purse on the bed. Too full for just her sketchbook.

"What's going on, Lydia?"

She sits gently on the bed, smoothing out her skirt. How she isn't freezing with only leggings and a skirt he has no clue. Women's fashion makes no sense to him. He joins her, both gazing sightlessly at the cluster of notes on the board.

"My parents decided they would try to reconcile. It's going about as well as you'd imagine. Dad stormed out after yelling that the women in our family are crazy," she grimaces, "that word means something different to me now."

Stiles leans over and nudges her gently with a shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she says abruptly. "If I was ever insensitive or rude to you after your Mom—"

"No! No. You were rude, fair. But not about that. About her. And I was an annoying little shit," he shrugs.

She gives him a watery smile and nudges him back. "Yeah, you were. But this just…felt like the place I had to be. I can't explain it…but I felt this urge like I was being pulled here by a magnetic force a few hours ago. That's when I did, well those," she gestures at her maps tacked onto the board.

The spell worked, he realizes. _It worked!_ It didn't work in the way he expected but he can't deny that he's now aware of the danger. He eyes Lydia speculatively, he doesn't know how he missed that she can act as the link to the unseen. His mind whirls with possibilities that he's going to have to shelve for another time.

"No one's going to notice you're gone?" he asks.

Lydia huffs sadly, "Dad took off back to his house and Mom passed out with a bottle of wine ages ago. I left a note. Will your Dad mind if I stay tonight?"

"Nah," he waves a hand dismissively. "I'll let him know." She nudges him back in thanks.

Together they sit in contemplative silence except for the hard patter of rain on the roof. It's peaceful, but he can't help but feel a niggling sense of wariness. Like something is watching him just out the corner of his eye. It's a sensation he's grimly started to become familiar with and he's not sure how much of this feeling is his own paranoia and how much is the spell. He follows Lydia's sightless gaze to the window, where rivulets of rain trickle down the glass.

"Lyds," he hesitates, unwilling to take his eyes off the rain-spattered window, "do you think it could travel through _any_ kind of water?"


	9. Chapter 9

A loud, insistent buzz drags Stiles from sleep. Eyes shut, he bats a hand at his buzzing phone charging next to the bed in an attempt to shut it up. Blearily, he opens his eyes, ready to dismiss the first in a long line of generic Christmas wishes when another buzz comes through.

 **Scott | 7:20 am |** _Gerard is dead._

What.

The.

Fuck.

What the actual fuck.

One hand still clutching his phone, eyes magnetized to those three words, he reaches out with his free hand to none-too-gently shake a sleeping Lydia's shoulder.

"Lydia. Lydia! Lydia, wake the fuck up!" he hisses, still unable to take his eyes away from Scott's message. The words so final. Permanently etched into his memory.

His thumbs tap rapid-fire across the screen.

 **Stiles | 7:23 am |** _Best Christmas gift ever!_

"Stiles?" Lydia murmurs, half-hidden behind a tangled nest of hair, "S'too early," she says, snuffling further into the pillow.

" _Lydia_ ," he urges, "wake up!"

She lazily reaches an arm back to vaguely slap in his general direction.

"Get. Up!" he puffs, seizing the end of her pillow and ruthlessly tugging it from beneath her head.

Quicker than a viper, she's up, rearing back as though she could turn him to stone with a well-placed glare.

He doesn't think banshees have that power, but it looks as though she's willing to try.

"What?" she spits venomously, batting wayward hair from her face. "This better be—"

He thrusts the phone at her face, her eyes nearly crossing with the suddenness closeness.

"Oh," she says faintly, rubbing sleep from her eyes, "I suppose that counts as important then…"

His phone buzzes again.

 **Scott | 7:25 am |** _Not funny Stiles. That's Allison's grandpa you're talking about._ **Stiles | 7:25 am |** _And Hitler was someone's son. What about it? Dude was a full-blown psycho._

He tosses his phone aside, sick of dealing with Scott and his self-righteous bullshit already.

Lydia sighs, flopping inelegantly back onto the bed, all hopes of sleeping in dashed.

"It's Christmas Day, can't we even get Christmas Day off?" she asks the ceiling acerbically.

"Supernatural shenanigans wait for no man…or woman in your case."

"Maybe we should buy the nemeton a calendar, then?" she jokes despondently.

A soft shuffling interrupts their wallowing as the sheriff appears, sleep rumpled in the doorway. He smothers a yawn, pajama pants pooling around his socked feet. Noah tosses his cell phone onto the mattress with a gruff, "Chris called me. Said you need to ring him back ASAP. He's got questions."

Noah leans against the doorway, arms folded. He gestures at the crime wall with a nod of his head, "This is about all…this, isn't it?"

"Uhhh…" Stiles drags out, side-eyeing Lydia. "I dunno? Scott told me Gerard died?"

"Small blessings," Noah snorts. "That's gotta be a good thing though, right?"

Stiles shrugs, and waves a splayed hand at his face, "I mean…last I saw him he was melting from the whole facial…region. So…"

Noah scrunches his nose up in disgust, "You know what, I'm not sure I want to know. But Chris made it sound like this wasn't a natural death."

"Like what, something poisoned him? Gave him a taste of his own medicine?" Stiles asks a little too eagerly.

"Do I look like I know, son? Call him back, find out for yourself," he says jabbing a finger at the dormant phone. "Though I expect a full run-down once I've had my coffee. It's too early in the morning and it's the first Christmas Day I've had off duty in years. Gerard's not going anywhere any time soon," he dismisses.

The sheriff turns his attention to Lydia, "Please tell me your mother knows you're here," he asks, running an exasperated hand down his wrinkled face.

"I left her a note," Lydia smiles sweetly back, a note of steel belying the faux-innocent expression. There was no way Lydia was going home just yet and no power on earth would convince her otherwise.

"Well, that's something at least," he replies, rolling his eyes.

"What, you weren't worried about this?" Stiles gestures between himself and Lydia on the bed.

"Son…no. Lydia has standards." Stiles jaw drops at his dad's savage rebuttal. Lydia's eyes crinkle in approval and barely suppressed mirth, a dainty hand covering her twitching lips.

"Also, you talk in your sleep," the sheriff continues. Stiles' heart kicks up a galloping pace, _oh no nonono…_ "I'll be having words with Derek Hale later; I can promise you that."

Stiles can feel himself flushing a deep red as Lydia laughs delightedly.

"No, dad, it's not like tha—"

"Nope. No. Nuh-uh. Don't want to hear it, son. I've heard far too much of it as it is," his dad teases, enjoying his son's embarrassment. Noah throws a conspiratorial wink Lydia's way when Stiles drags his hands down his face in shamed despair.

The sheriff throws a, "Call Argent!" over his shoulder as he retreats to the kitchen, buoyed by his success in embarrassing Stiles.

Stiles takes a fortifying breath, letting it slowly escape between his pursed lips as he wills the blotchy burning in his cheeks to subside.

Lydia's sly voice interrupts, "I knew you two were eye-fucking. The unresolved sexual tension in pack meetings? Phew!" she whistles, fanning herself. Stiles reaches out one lanky arm and shoves her over. He whaps her over the head with a pillow for good measure.

"Not. A. Word," he threatens, pointing a finger in her face.

"You know, I could give you some pointers on—"

"I'm calling Argent!" Stiles all but yells, diving for the phone and punching Argent's contact. "Shh, I have to take this!" Lydia looks amused at Stiles deflection but sobers quickly when Chris Argent's gruff voice answers.

"Hey, it's uh – Stiles?"

"Scott told you?" he can hear the rasp of Chris running a hand over his bearded chin.

"Yeah…I'm uh…sorry for your loss?"

Chris scoffs, "You're not…but that's not why I called. What have you found out about this hunch of yours?"

Stiles looks at the haphazardly stacked tomes in piles around his room.

"Uhh, we've got a definite hunch. Very hunchy. Mucho hunchias." Lydia's soul shrivels on the inside at the crime of Stiles' attempt at Spanish.

"Good," says Argent, "because there's a tape you need to see. What are your plans for today?"

"Umm, it's Christmas Day so nothing obviously," Stiles rolls his eyes sarcastically.

"Great, we'll be there in an hour. Allison will text the rest of the pack to meet there."

The dial tone meets his ears before he can protest.

He meets Lydia's eyes. She narrows them and crosses her arms.

"I'm not doing anything unless you make me French toast," she demands.

Several sticky slices of French toast later (much to the Sheriff's joy), and Stiles is using colored push pins to mark the previous attack locations on the town map and their corresponding points on Lydia's sketches. Anything to avoid being drawn into Lydia's furious texting battle with her mother.

Stiles has just booted up his laptop to cross-reference the Kelpie page on Gerard's bestiary when Lydia zips her phone back into her Prada bag, a self-satisfied smirk across her features.

"Well? What's the verdict? Grounded for a week? No maths for a fortnight?"

"Please, I'm beyond mere parental discipline. I told her I was staying at Allison's tonight and her Christmas present is in the wine fridge."

Stiles' jaw drops. "Ok, not even remotely surprised you have a wine fridge…but how'd you manage to skip the entire holidays with her?"

"Oh, I told her Allison needed me seeing as it's her first Christmas without her mom and her grandfather just died," she smiles beatifically.

"That's cold, Lyds."

"I know," she chirps, "it's still true though, so…" she shrugs, at ease with her machinations.

From downstairs the doorbell rings insistently.

"I'll get it," Noah calls out, as though either of them was planning on answering the door.

The sound of clomping boots heralds the arrival of Chris Argent, who still gives off a menacing aura despite wearing a novelty Christmas jumper with tiny reindeer under his eponymous leather jacket.

He and Derek should start a leather lovers club.

Wait, no. That sounds a little too BDSM for his liking.

Stiles shakes the errant thought away as Chris, Allison, Scott, (and to Stiles' distaste) Isaac crowd their way into his bedroom. Lydia pats the open space next to her on the bed for Allison to sit. Although she casts a flinty-eyed glare at Isaac when he makes a move to join them. He wisely slouches with Scott against the wall instead.

Allison meets Stiles eyes with a wry smile, he notes that she looks surprisingly unruffled at the prospect of her grandfather's alleged murder.

The sheriff enters, steaming coffee mug in one hand, the other hand reaching to squeeze Chris' shoulder.

"Sorry for your loss," he says, before moving to review Stiles murder board. Stiles wisely schools his face into a more sincere expression. Gerard wasn't much of a loss if you ask him.

Chris sighs, "While I'm not entirely troubled by Gerard's death, I _am_ troubled by the way it happened," he says, tossing a USB at Stiles who fumbles it briefly. He doesn't miss Isaac's eye roll, however.

"I've been looking into your suspicions, Stiles, and I have to say – I agree," Argent says, eyeing his growing wall of evidence. Isaac makes a barely audible sound of disbelief, a sound that is silenced by the intensity of Allison's glare. She obviously hasn't forgiven his attitude yet either.

"Take me through it," the hunter says, gesturing at his color-coded, mostly-gathered-through-illegal-means collection of evidence.

Stiles hesitates the moment all eyes are on him. This is like the worst class presentation ever, except the outcome of this will either cement his status as a paranoid wreck after the nogitsune or vindicate him (and with it all the bragging rights he can get).

"Ok…so, uh –" he begins, brain firing in a million directions at once on where to begin. Scott folding his arms and sharing a glance with Isaac, however, sparks a fire in his chest. He's going to make them beg for forgiveness after this. Some pack they are, he thinks bitterly.

So, he explains. He marshals his thoughts and reflects on what he passed along to Derek and Peter.

He speaks about the water samples Deaton asked them to collect, the blue pins on the map signifying odd animal deaths surrounding the creek, and how the toxicology came back normal despite the causes of deaths being listed as dehydration or drowning. He speaks about how he, Derek, and Peter tossed around the idea of a supernatural pathogen following the spread from animal to human. Of the red pins marking the oddities of Daniel Ellis's last steps to Oak Creek; Ashley Cook's pressure-induced suicide and Chris Coleman's drowning. Scott clenches his jaw and looks away at the gory autopsy photos of Ashley's self-inflicted wound. Good, Stiles thinks bitterly. He hardly looks delusional when faced with the increasingly violent pattern that's emerging.

"It gets more complicated though," Stiles adds. He loads the footage from Ashley's death. "I've cleaned up the audio a bit at the end – it was too quiet in the original."

"This looks like it's from the hospital. How'd you get this?" Scott asks gruffly, still avoiding meeting his eye.

Stiles looks him in the eye, unwilling to let him evade the truth. "Your mom got me in, gave me a copy. Said you'd pull your head out of the sand eventually," he dismisses him, spinning his chair to hit play on the laptop. Out the corner of his eye, he catches Lydia holding Allison's hand in comfort as they relive Ashley's last minute of life. Begging for it to stop. That she's sorry.

Sorry for what, Stiles doesn't know yet. But he sees the unanswered question register as important in both his father and Chris's subtle body language.

He can tell Isaac isn't convinced though.

He loads up his pièce de résistance. The proverbial nail in the coffin. The CCTV of Daniel Ellis supposedly walking to his death, several minutes after presumably drowning in his kitchen sink. The undeniable soapy sink water filling his lungs, his unaccompanied walk, the body with no signs of self-defense. His dad, thankfully, backs him up on the impossibility of this being a simple suicide or body dump. How the evidence paints a simple explanation, no matter how unbelievable it may seem.

"Peter thought that thing here we assumed was some sort of boot print is the answer-"

"You've been working with Peter?" Scott barks, betrayed.

"Because unlike some, he listens. He believes me. Both he and Derek have been helping me research to work out what this thing is."

"And what has he concluded?" Chris asks, cutting off Scott's indignant response ready to burst from his lips.

"That it looks like a Kelpie hoof print."

A resounding silence meets his statement. Chris snatches the photo from the board, peering intensely at the prints left behind in the water.

"You expect us to believe there's a killer seahorse, what? Making people go coco?" Isaac smirks.

"He's right," states Chris, meeting Isaac's smirk dead on. "We don't have much on Kelpies. They're unheard of on this side of the world. But I can't deny that that's a hoof print. Until we get clearer proof, we have to assume this is what we're dealing with."

Scott still looks disbelieving, "How would a magic horse thing get from England to here anyway?"

"Scotland," Stiles corrects. "And maybe it got here the same way a thousand-year-old Nogitsune got here."

That shuts Scott up.

Allison adds grimly, "You need to see the tape," she gestures at the USB lying on Stiles's desk.

He opens the lone video file as everyone crowds over his shoulder for a prime vantage point.

It's a grainy surveillance tape looking down upon a sparse, clinical room. It's empty, but not for long.

"Is this the nursing home's footage?" his dad asks.

Chris smirks, "No, they have a policy against recording in personal living spaces. But I don't have that policy. This is from a hidden camera I installed in the light fitting. Gerard is predictable. I let him find the other two bugs I planted in the room to let him think he won."

That's very Peter Hale of you…" Stiles says, disturbed and impressed at the same time.

"I'll pretend I heard none of this, " his dad mutters.

"Might be for the best, pops," Stiles consoles just as Gerard enters the frame. They silently watch with bated breath as he goes through the motions of shuffling around with his cane. When he turns, face visible for the first time, they can all see the black ooze glistening from an ever-leaking nose. He stuffs yet another inky tissue into the pocket of his dressing-gown and shuffles his way to the attached bathroom. He almost looks like a run of the mill neighborhood grandpa, Stiles thinks. Carpet slippers, quilted dressing gown, plaid pajamas. Except Stiles knows that he'd prefer a broadsword over a cane anyway.

They watch Gerard lean over his tub to run the water. He picks up a small purple bottle and adds it to the water. Stiles desperately holds in a snort when he sees the water begin to foam. Lavender bubble bath – who knew?

His attention is quickly drawn back to the video when something _moves_ in the tub. It's barely discernible, like something invisible has altered the flow of water. The light refracting oddly. Gerard seems oblivious to the presence of something other. Until he reaches over to twist the faucet off. He jolts as the water surges up his arm, tendrils rushing up his neck, over his chin, and then diving down his throat. Stiles regrets buying his gaming speaker system as harsh gurgles seem to echo around his room. Gerard thrashes, desperately clawing at his throat, ramming fingers down his gullet attempting to purge the water flooding his lungs. Bloodied spittle cascades down his chin as he convulses on the tiled floor. Then finally, silence.

"Well, damn," his dad says, eloquently.

"Wait," Chris cautions, eagle eyes locked onto the screen.

Stiles tears his away and scans the footage. He's not sure what-

There. Barely a trickle at first, but a steady flow of brackish water (must be a side effect of the inkiness, Stiles assumes) leaks from Gerard's nose, mouth, eyes, and disturbingly, ears. The puddle _moves_ back towards the tub, slithering up into the faucet.

There's a cacophony as they all speak at once -

"What the actual fuck."

"This is beyond my paygrade, kid"

"How do you kill water?!"

"What even is that?"

"Hooooly shit," Stiles says leaning back in his chair and running a hand down his face.

It's Lydia who halts the arguing, pointing at the paused image on the monitor. "Rewind the video. Look there." Faintly through the graininess of the video, there are marks. Smaller splashes of water. Hoofprints.

"I fucking told you!" Stiles snarls at Isaac and Scott.

"I've never heard of a Kelpie being able to shapeshift like that," Chris shakes his head, shocked.

Lydia hums, carefully selecting a red pin, "Where did Gerard die though?"

Chris takes the pin from her and places it just over the edge of the county border. "I couldn't keep him in Beacon Hills, for obvious reasons…"

He valiantly ignores Stiles' muttered, "Didn't have to keep him at all…"

The sheriff steps up to the map, casting a critical gaze over the pins, labels, and string connecting elements together. He selects a yellow pin, a color Stiles hasn't used yet, and, with a cautious glance at Isaac, places the pin over the Beacon Hills Cemetery.

"It might not be related…but the creek floods and damages the cemetery just as all this starts?" he waves a hand at the crime board. "I gotta call anything water-related in the preserve unusual now if you're right about those animal deaths." He turns to Scott, squinting in that Clint Eastwood way of his, "Now, you're sure Deaton didn't find anything…off about the creek?"

"No? All the samples came back normal. I trust Deaton, I don't think he had anything to do with this," Scott defends.

"I'm not saying he does," the sheriff placates, "but if Deaton didn't pick it up maybe it's harder to track than we thought." They lapse into anxious silence at the idea.

"This…" the sheriff sighs, staring at the board, "this seems familiar somehow. Something about this is niggling at me…What do the vics have in common?"

"I…I hadn't gotten that far yet. I figured they were just convenient?" Stiles replies, thrown.

Chris shakes his head, "No, I think there must be a connection somewhere. Lydia, Stiles says you drew this?" he asks, pointing at her hand-drawn lines from creeks to pipelines. "Tell me, what do you notice?"

She trails her hand along her map, delicately tracing the inked lines, following a path only she knows. It's almost as though she's staring _through_ the map, eyes going unfocused in a way that can only mean she's accessing some of her Banshee abilities, whether she knows it or not.

"It's moved…" she says faintly, reaching to pluck a red string connecting two pins. She holds her head closer, listening to what Stiles calls Banshee Radio. "It started here," her finger drifts from the preserve waterways, "but it prefers here now," fingers tracing over the water treatment plant and into the sharp-edged lines of the town's sewer system.

"Exactly," Chris muses, "normally a creature like this is defending a territory. Kelpies are notorious for living in a single body of water. Which I would have assumed was the creek the samples came from—"

"So…you're saying this thing thinks the whole town water system is its territory?" Allison asks. "That's a lot of space…how does it decide who to attack then? Does this mean the whole town is at risk?"

"There's no way, in a town full of people that it just so happened to single out Gerard Argent, notorious creature murderer. That's no coincidence. That's a targeted, planned attack which means this Kelpie, or whatever it is, is sentient. It has a purpose, a plan—" the sheriff realizes.

Stiles speaks up, "Look at the pattern though…if we include the animals in this, this Kelpie thing is attacking more often and with bigger victims."

"So, it's getting confident…or more powerful with each victim," Allison says, an analytical spark in her eye as she studies the board.

"I think," Lydia interrupts, "that the more important question here is why."

Noah nods in agreement, "I think so too. This is a pattern. There must be something linking them together." He taps a finger against the license photo of Ellis. "This seems familiar to me somehow. In the back of my mind. Leave it with me – I'll have a look at the station, see if I can't find something to connect them all together."

"Or connect those three with Gerard. They're all early 20's – new hunter recruits?" Stiles asks Chris.

He hums in consideration, "Unlikely. We were monitoring him closely. But it's worth a look."

Stiles cuts a glance at Scott and Isaac, who look subdued.

"Got anything insightful to add, fearless leader? Isaac, got any useful opinions to share now?" he bites out, unwilling to forget their dismissive behavior in the last week.

Scoot opens his mouth, and closes it again after a second, searching for words. "I'm sorry if you felt upset, but—"

Lydia cuts him off before Stiles gets the chance, "He said insightful. You avoiding responsibility and blaming others is neither insightful nor surprising. You and Isaac owe Stiles and Allison an apology. A real one—"

"Lydia," Allison mutters, "It's ok, honestly…"

"No," she snaps. "It's not. I expect better from a True Alpha. If you want to keep those magical leadership skills, you had better earn them. The both of you need to think about what a pack does and how a pack treats each other. Peter Hale has been more of a supportive pack member than both of you combined."

"Lydia, cmon," Scott pleads.

"She's right," Stiles says, rising to a stand. "You and I have some thinking to do. The things you've said this past week," he shakes his head. "I'll be waiting for your apology. But it won't be today. Get back to me when you actually mean it."

The sheriff, seeing his moment, adds, "I think we've all got some research to do. But for now, go home and try to enjoy the rest of your Christmas. Well," he winces with a glance at Chris and Allison, "as much as you can."

"Come on Allison," Lydia says, collecting her bag and brushing by a quiet Scott, "I want a shower while we're still off this thing's radar…"

Stiles busies himself with neatening his desk to avoid looking at either of the wolves as they retreat to the McCall's. Allison trails a hand over his shoulder as she leaves, casting him a soft smile that promises a catch up later.

It's quiet for a moment. The room seemingly larger than before without the pack crowding it. He can't help but be relieved to be alone in his own space though. Well, almost alone.

"You doing ok, son?"

Stiles shrugs and hums dismissively. "I suppose, it's just a lot to think about now."

"God, don't I know it. You were right though, kid. You did good."

"It doesn't feel like it. This just feels like a continuation of…all that," he waves at the ceiling-mounted camera his dad installed during his possession.

"It will get better. I know it doesn't feel like it now. And I know I wasn't the most supportive either at first. I'm sorry about that. I truly am… Is there anything I can do for now?"

Stiles shakes his head, "Nah, you're good, Pops." He waves his phone, "I've gotta update the away team," he grimaces.

"You do that. I'll let you know what I find connecting those vics tomorrow. But today, I'm taking Lydia's advice to shower while I can and then watching re-runs of the game. You're welcome to join me downstairs when you're ready…"

"Thanks, Dad," he whispers as his dad partially closes his door to give him some privacy.

Stiles lazily spins in his computer chair, tapping his phone against his thigh as he figures out how to word the message to Peter and Derek.

 **Stiles | 9:16 am | Happy Birthday Sourwolf.** **Stiles | 9:16 am | And Merry Xmas. You got time to talk? I've got an update.** **Derek | 9:17 am | Already? Need me to get Peter?** **Stiles | 9:18 am | I think he'll want to hear this.**

Barely a minute passes before his phone buzzes in his hand.

"Hey"

"Merry Christmas, Stiles," Derek says warmly. "I'm not sure how you knew it was my birthday, but I've stopped being surprised by the things you find out."

"Ahh, hacked the police database and looked up your arrest profile."

"I expected nothing less. It's not like you could have asked…" Derek teases.

"You say that as though you would have given me a straight answer," Stiles smirks.

"Mmm, that's true. What's happened?"

"Is Peter there? There's been another death. This time on camera."

Peter calls out from the background, "Who was it this time?"

"Gerard Argent."

There's a moment of silence after Derek's rushed intake of breath.

"Are you sure?"

"Saw it with my own eyes. Definitely dead."

Peter sounds a little too gleeful, "Well that is the best news I've heard all week. A Christmas miracle! Make sure you cut the body in half so he can't come back."

Stiles grimaces, "Isn't that a little paranoid?"

"Look who you're talking to," Peter boasts. "I'll speak to Christopher to make sure he stays in the ground. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, really…"

"Argent had a video of it—"

"Can you email me a copy?"

"No. Peter, focus. In the video the water attacked him. It came up out of the faucet and drowned him like some murderous puddle."

"Can Kelpies do that?" Derek asks.

"Hmm," Peter hums, "In some bestiaries, they take on a liquid form in their body of water, but they must take their water horse form to surface or leave. It seems unusual…but we simply don't know enough about them yet."

"How do you know it's a Kelpie if it was…water?" Derek asks.

"You can say killer puddle, it's ok, Derek," Stiles mocks. "And because after it…slithered…back into the faucet it left behind tracks. Hoof shaped tracks just like at Ellis' house."

"If it came out of the plumbing then we've got big problems," says Derek.

"Lydia brought me a drawing she did in a trance…it's the preserve and town waterways. We think it's killing specific people. Dad's trying to find the connection and the motive."

"Who would ever have a grudge against Gerard Argent? That's going to be so easy to narrow down," Peter snarks.

"It's more than we had to go on yesterday," Derek says. "I don't like the idea that it can travel through the pipes though. That leaves everyone vulnerable. The fact that it seems to be actively targeting people makes me worried about retaliation if it realizes we're trying to stop it."

"Should we be stopping it? I mean…it did take out the infamous Gerard Argent. Let's give it a chance…" Peter hums.

"Tell that to Ashley Cook, dude. She's got a clean record. We can't assume anything yet."

Peter sighs, "Fine. Spoil my fun. I suggest you use those books I sent you and start practicing your warding. I'd ward your whole house and every tap for good measure."

Stiles pulls _Practical Rites and Runes_ from where he'd stashed it from prying eyes. He's not sure why, but he wants to keep the emissary magic a secret from the pack for now. The book seems to hum in his hand, sending a surge of energy through him.

Time to get to work.


End file.
